


Something Else

by f-ing-ruthless-baz (f_ing_ruthless_baz)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: All the Smut, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs to Prove a Point, Bondage So Light You Can't Even Call it Bondage, Competitive Hand Jobs, Competitive Wanking, Dreaming of Makeouts With One's Enemy, Enemies to Lovers, Fighting Turns to Frotting, Gratuitous Smut, Kissing That Feels Like Fighting, M/M, Smut, Watford Eighth Year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_ing_ruthless_baz/pseuds/f-ing-ruthless-baz
Summary: I only have to give one solid push to knock him over, and I immediately pin him to the ground instead. My foot catches on his as we roll, and I feel a sharp twinge of pain up my leg. (Maybe antagonizing him today, of all days, wasn’t my most brilliant idea, as it turns out.) I don’t let on, however, and use my other knee to hold his legs down.“I’m not interested in your girlfriend, Snow,” I say as he struggles against me. “It’s not my fault if she’s not interested in you, either.”His nostrils flare, and I can see the slight shimmer of his magic pushing towards the surface. Someone with more sense than I’ve got might run, at this point—I can see from the corner of my eye that Dev and Niall have already started to back away—but someone with more sense wouldn’t be so in love with Simon Snow, and so self-destructive, that they relish every excuse to be close to him, no matter how much it hurts.Simon and Baz are used to fighting--they've been doing it for years--but they've found a new way to get under each other's skin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to say that this fic is my _What if..._ interpretation of Baz not getting kidnapped, because the canon-equivalent elements in this are spotty, inconsistent, and sometimes just wrong. I manipulated events to suit my needs, so if you're looking for a good spin on canon, this isn't it. But if you're looking for excessive smut scenes--seriously, so excessive--with a splash of internal angst, then this might be the fic for you!
> 
> I'd also like to give a shout-out to [giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu) for cheering me on, and to the Circle of Tears, [The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff) and [soultoast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soultoast), for beta-reading, idea-bouncing, and contributing a little something special to this fic. 😏

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz is a bit late getting back to Watford for eighth year, but Simon doesn't waste any time getting back at him for the end of last term.

**BAZ**

I smell him before I see him.

Snow is practically fuming by the time I glance over my shoulder to find him charging towards me across the Great Lawn, like an angered bull. I’m not sure what he’s gotten himself in a strop about this time, but it seems apparent that I’m at the centre of it, as I so often am.

“Where’ve you been?” he shouts at me as he continues barrelling forward.

I’m nearly a week late getting to Watford this term, after an incident at the club, but I’ve only missed a few days of lessons so I am certainly not behind. Somehow, I don’t think my academic success is his concern, at the moment.

“Why, did you miss me?” I say with a sneer, once he’s close enough that I don’t have to shout back.

“Fuck you,” he spits, and shoves me hard with both hands and the full force of his momentum.

Dev and Niall—good lads that they are—make a move towards us to intervene, but I hold up a hand to reassure them I’m fine, as I’ve only staggered back a couple steps. I can handle Snow on my own. I always do.

I stand straighter and muster an air of boredom. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Snow?”

“You think I don’t know?” he says as he gets right up in my face. The smell of his magic is strong—intoxicating—but I don’t think he’s about to go off. He’s not quite glowing around the edges yet.

“Of course. You don’t know anything.”

“I saw you with Agatha at the end of last term.” He says this as if it’s meant to justify his rather hostile greeting. (Perhaps it does.)

“I’ve no clue what you’re on about,” I lie.

“You and Agatha!” he says emphatically. “Holding hands in the woods!”

“Oh,” I say. “That.”

The smokiness of his magic intensifies and he gives me the look he always does when he’s about to call his sword. But he doesn’t make a move for it this time.

“Well?” he says, jutting his chin forward. “Are you gonna explain yourself?”

“Why should I?”

He shoves me again, with slightly less impact, since he didn’t get a running start. “Stop—” He gives me another quick shove backwards. “Going after—” And another. “My girlfriend.”

“Please,” I scoff. “She came after me.”

Rage fills his eyes and he takes a step back just to charge at me again, full force, and hits me so hard with his shoulder that I lose my footing and land on my back, the wind nearly knocked out of me. My friends seem uncertain whether to assist me or not, but before they can reach me, I swing my leg and kick one of Snow’s feet out from under him so he falls to the ground next to me.

The impact hits him hard, and for a moment, I almost feel bad for using my superior strength against him, especially after he’s just spent the summer being underfed. He’s not back at his fighting weight yet—which is unfortunate, because I much prefer when he fills out his uniform a bit more. (A few weeks of proper meals usually does the trick.)

I’m already sitting up by the time he rolls to one side, groaning in pain, and I’m about ready to make another snide remark when he hurls himself towards me, elbow first, and gets me in the ribcage. I retaliate with my own elbow almost immediately, but he throws himself at me again, knocking me to my back once more.

It doesn’t take much effort to hold him off by his arms, which he flails as he tries to land a punch, even though he’s practically on top of me now. If I didn’t think he would break my nose again, I might just let him believe he’s won, but I’d rather not add to my list of injuries for the week.

I only have to give one solid push to knock him over, and I immediately pin him to the ground instead. My foot catches on his as we roll, and I feel a sharp twinge of pain up my leg. (Maybe antagonizing him today, of all days, wasn’t my most brilliant idea, as it turns out.) I don’t let on, however, and use my other knee to hold his legs down.

“I’m not interested in your girlfriend, Snow,” I say as he struggles against me. “It’s not my fault if she’s not interested in you, either.”

His nostrils flare, and I can see the slight shimmer of his magic pushing towards the surface. Someone with more sense than I’ve got might run, at this point—I can see from the corner of my eye that Dev and Niall have already started to back away—but someone with more sense wouldn’t be so in love with Simon Snow, and so self-destructive, that they relish every excuse to be close to him, no matter how much it hurts.

“Look, Snow,” I add, my voice softening ever so slightly, against my will, “I didn’t invite her out to the woods, all right? I am far too bored of your little melodrama with each other, for Crowley’s sake.”

He strains under my arms for another moment before going slack, and I can feel his magic receding. Like he’s given up on anger in favour of depressing self-pity. (I, for one, have always believed in carrying around an unhealthy dose of both at all times, however.)

“Get off,” he says through his teeth, though he’s turned his head away from me, like he can’t stand the sight of me any longer. Unsurprisingly.

I give him another small shove into the ground before getting up, but he just continues to lie there, staring off past the football pitch towards the Wavering Wood, like it holds some sort of answer for him.

I watch him a few seconds too long before turning to walk away, though my leg has gone a bit numb and it takes a concerted effort not to limp on my way over to the drawbridge; it appears a great number of students have stopped what they were doing to gawk at our tussle.

I notice Wellbelove among them, staring at me with eyes wide. I don’t acknowledge her.

I meant what I said to Snow; I’m bored of whatever is going on between them. Let them live happily ever after together. I’m done.

* * *

**SIMON**

“I—I don’t understand.” I frown in confusion, but Agatha’s expression doesn’t change.

“I can’t do this anymore, Simon,” she says, sweeping all her hair in front of one shoulder—she tends to do this a lot, especially when the weather’s warm, move all her hair from one side to the other; I think it’s ‘cause her neck sweats, but she’d never admit that. “I’m not the prize at the end of the battle between you and Baz.”

“I should hope not!” I say, considering how Baz seems to have won our last fight and all. (Only because I gave up, though.)

“I hate the idea of you fighting over me, as though what I want doesn’t matter!”

“We weren’t fighting over you,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Er, I mean—” _Fuck, what do I mean?_ “It wasn’t just— You weren’t the only— He’s evil, Agatha! I have to fight him, it’s what I do!”

“Why? Why do you always have to fight him?”

“I just do!”

Agatha sweeps her hair over to the other shoulder—maybe she just likes having something to do with her hands—and sighs. “Well, I don’t.”

“What?”

“This isn’t my fight, Simon. I’m out.”

“Out?” I ask. “You can’t be out; you’re my _girlfriend_.”

“I’m not, though, am I?” She looks at me sadly. “Not really. Not the way I’m supposed to be.”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s over, Simon—_We’re_ over.”

I try to argue with her, telling her that we can’t break up because I love her. She just says she loves me too, but not in the right way.

I still don’t understand. We’re meant to be together. She’s my future.

At least, I thought she was. But as I trudge up the steps of Mummers House towards my room, I’m not sure I ever quite knew what that meant.

I’m not sure how much of a future I’ll even have.

I’m grateful that Baz isn’t in our room when I get here—I’d rather not get cast out of Watford for punching him, and I’m not sure I could stop myself right now—but it still feels strange. He’s clearly moved his stuff in, although his side of the room looks as clean as when he’s gone for the summer. But there’s still something off about it all.

I think if Baz had been any later returning to Watford, I would have lost my mind. I was so sure he was plotting something—everything about it seemed wrong. But even now that he’s here, it’s still not quite right.

The room doesn’t smell like him yet. It’s unsettling.

* * *

**BAZ**

Perhaps my family was right. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come back to Watford yet.

I didn’t want to miss any more lessons than I absolutely had to—wouldn’t want Penelope Bunce to get a head start at being top of the class this year—but I don’t think my leg’s completely healed.

For reasons I still can’t figure out, I somehow got into a scrape with some numpties outside the club about a week ago. They managed to get the drop on me—because who in their right mind would expect to find _numpties_ outside the club?—and if I hadn’t just ran into Dev on my way out, I’m not sure I would have made it.

One of the stony bastards tripped me before I could even make sense of what was going on. It was trying to lift me when Dev shouted something—a spell, I suppose, though I couldn’t hear clearly with my head pounding—and its arm crumbled into a pile of rocks beneath me. Dev threatened to do the same to the rest of them if they didn’t fuck off, and I heard their footsteps crunching away into the distance.

When I got home, I tried to avoid mentioning anything, but news of numpty sightings near the club around the time I was there had already reached my family, so I told them what happened. Some of it, anyway. I left out the part about twisting my ankle—had Dev cast a temporary healing spell on it for me until I could get home and try to fix it up the rest of the way myself—since I couldn’t bear the humiliation of admitting I was_ injured by fucking numpties_.

I managed to spell my leg well enough to walk with hardly any limp, but I knew that wasn’t a long term solution. I figured it would heal itself eventually, but I didn’t want to waste any more time out of school waiting for that. My father, however, was certain the numpties had something to do with the Mage and the war, an attack on the Old Families, and insisted that I not return to Watford this year.

That, I knew, wasn’t going to happen.

It took a while to convince my father to let me go back, and I had to promise to keep my wits about me. I didn’t think I’d get into a fight with Snow this soon, though. Well, not like this. He hasn’t knocked me to the ground as much the past couple of years, so I wasn’t quite expecting it.

Definitely didn’t help the problem with my ankle, of course, but at least it gave me an excuse to go to the infirmary and get professional help for my leg. (I was mildly concerned about it healing _wrong_, so I’m actually grateful for this.) (Not that I’ll tell Snow as much.)

In fact, I try to avoid Snow as much as possible for the rest of the day, even after getting my leg taken care of. Catching up on studies in the library, hunting in the catacombs—the usual. It’s rather late by the time I finally get back to our room, and he’s already fast asleep, thank magic. It’s one thing to brawl with him on the lawn, but I can’t stand when he tries to talk to me. About his feelings. For Wellbelove.

I’m a bit out of sorts tonight, however, and find that I’ve managed to get blood on myself while I was draining rats. I take my chances running water for my shower at this hour, and hope that Snow doesn’t wake from it. But I desperately need it.

When I step back out of the ensuite, I see that the lamp next to Snow’s bed is lit, and he’s sitting up, rubbing his eyes groggily.

“Where were you?” he asks, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“Out,” I say as I put my clothes in my hamper, paying him as little attention as I can.

“Not tonight; I mean all week,” he says. “Why weren’t you here? At Watford.”

I deliberately avoid looking at him and get into bed, spelling his lamp off as I do. “None of your business.”

“Were you plotting? Is that what it is?”

“Yes, Snow,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I took an extra week off to put the finishing touches on my master plan to end you, once and for all, because you are the only thing I think about, all the time.” That was perhaps a little too close to the truth, but he would never believe the truth anyway.

“Right,” he grumbles, and I hear his sheets rustling as he settles himself back down for the night and takes in a deep breath.

“It smells like you in here, now,” he adds, though he sounds half asleep already.

_Really?_ I think. I take in a deep breath as well. _Because all I can smell in here is you._

I won’t say that this is the reason I insisted on returning to Watford.

It might be true. But I won’t say it.

* * *

**SIMON**

The next time I see Baz, he’s standing by the football pitch again, but there’s no one else around. He’s just there, alone in a field, staring at me. Challenging me. Daring me to take him down.

I will, this time.

I try to summon my sword as I run at him, but the words get all jumbled in my mouth and it doesn’t come. My footing falters when I look down at my empty hand, where my sword should be, and I tumble forward, crashing into Baz and taking him down with me.

It barely takes him a second to gain control of the situation, pushing me off of him and rolling over to pin me to the ground again. He stares down at me, a smirk playing across his lips, as he holds himself up with his hands pressed into the ground at either side of my head. Some of his dark hair falls in front of his face, casting a shadow over his eyes, and I reach up to sweep it back behind his ear without even thinking.

I don’t really know why I do it, and I don’t really know why I let my hand linger in his hair afterwards. Why I grab the back of his head and pull it down to meet mine. Why I kiss him.

I just have to; there’s no other way to explain it. I’m burning up from the inside, but it’s not just magic—it’s something I usually try to ignore, but it’s gotten so intense, so hot, that it’s demanding all of my attention.

I’m going to _go off_ if I don’t _get off_, and the smell of Baz’s posh soap—that _cedar and whatever-the-fuck_ scent—is only making matters worse. (It’s probably because the shower in our room always smells like this, and it’s where I do the majority of my wanking.) (It’s like that _pavlova_ _response_, or something.)

Not that it really explains the whole kissing my nemesis bit—_but doesn’t it?_

It’s not like I could do this with Agatha, even if we hadn’t broken up. (Did we break up? I can’t remember.) (If not, I’m sure we will after this.)

Kissing Agatha was all sweet and soft—and sparing—but this, this is all rough and assertive, and still not enough.

I feel like I should be surprised that Baz hasn’t stopped me yet, but when I try to think about why we don’t do this all the time, I draw a blank. Merlin, maybe we _do_ do this all the time, and I just forgot. The way he’s sucking on my lower lip sure makes it seem as though he knows what I like…

He pulls my lip between his teeth and gives a sharp tug before lifting his head and smirking at me again. I try to pull him back in, since I don’t have time for this sort of teasing right now, but he’s strong enough to overpower me when he wants to. The burning inside me intensifies at the thought.

“Baz,” I growl at him—or maybe it’s a whine. In any case, I tug on the sides of his jumper to bring him closer as I squirm restlessly beneath him. I need to. I need him.

“So eager, Snow,” he says when I push my hips up, just to get _something_.

One of his legs is slotted between mine, but he’s up on his knees and too high for me to reach.

“Is that all you’ve got?” His voice is low and thick, like when I accidentally wake him up early in the morning and he hurls half-baked insults at me. But there’s something different about it now. A tone that makes me want to buck my hips up into him again. So I do.

He retaliates by lowering his whole body and pressing it against mine as he crushes our mouths together again. I know he can tell I’m hard, what with the top of his thigh moving up and down between my legs, but I’m not embarrassed in the slightest. I just push back against him, trying to match his rhythm, as I chase the feeling of gratification I’m after.

That’s all this is about, anyway. Gratification. Baz is still my enemy, still a villain. If anything, I’m just using his body for my own ends—which I guess makes me sound like the villain. But he’s doing the same, I’m sure. I mean, it feels like he is.

I slide my hand up through his hair and grab some in my fist when he kisses my neck. (Have I seriously let a vampire kiss my neck before?) (I must have; he does it too well for this to be the first time.)

I hook my outer leg around the back of his to give myself leverage for the sprint to the finish line. I feel like I’m nearing the edge of a cliff at high speed, which is thrilling and terrifying at the same time—I almost think I should slow down, savour it a bit longer, but I don’t know how much time we have before we start fighting again. I need to use this moment while I have it in my grasp.

“Simon,” Baz breathes next to my ear. I’ve never heard him sound like that. So desperate and wanting. Wanting _me_. It sends a shiver down my spine.

He suddenly stops moving and adds, “You’re not even gay.”

“What?” I stop as well.

He lifts his head again and frowns at me. “You’re not even gay, Simon,” he says, only this time it’s in Penny’s voice.

_What the—_

“—_Fuck_,” I mutter under my breath when I wake up in my own bed. Exactly where I remember being before falling asleep and having the strangest dream of my entire life.

My hair is plastered to my forehead with sweat, and the bedsheets are tangled up between my legs—conveniently obscuring my _excitement_ from a particular roommate who might also be awake.

I risk a quick glance over at Baz’s bed—he looks sound asleep—before making a run for the bathroom. I lean back against the door as soon as it’s shut and try to slow my heart rate down.

_Did I just… _I try to shake the thought out of my head. It was only a dream, so it doesn’t matter what happened. It wasn’t real. It doesn’t mean anything.

It’s fine. I’m fine. Absolutely fine. I had to deal with some stressful shit yesterday, and my brain’s just trying to process it, I guess. I just need to shower and clear my head. And maybe take care of something else...

I strip off my pyjamas lightning fast and step into the shower before it’s even heated up all the way—it takes a bit longer than I’m used to, since I usually shower in the evening when there are fewer people using the hot water, but the cool shock feels kind of good on my burning hot skin.

I close my eyes as I let the water wash over me, allowing my shoulders to relax under the stream. As soon as my eyelids shut, however, I see Baz’s face. Specifically, the way it looked when he held himself above me in my dream; smirking, teasing—wanting, even.

I run my hand over my stomach as I consider my options. Trying to force myself to think of something else—_anything else_—isn’t working. But I can’t wank to thoughts of Baz’s face. Can I?

Maybe it’s not that big a deal. He’s always kind of been vaguely associated with it in my mind, because the shower usually smells like him—the whole room usually smells like him, actually. I just don’t think about it too hard, and it’s fine.

This is much less vague, though.

This is his face and his eyes and his mouth. His hair between my fingers. He’s all I can see and smell and think about right now, and I can’t help but touch myself at the memory of his body pressed against mine.

I’m not analyzing it now—I probably shouldn’t analyze it ever—I’m just going with it. Getting it out of my system.

It’ll never happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this fic will earn its rating eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon gets a hobby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for the delay in getting this chapter out, but if I did that, I'd have to apologize for every single chapter, and nobody has time for that. (Also I'm not in my right mind as I post this, but if I wait until tomorrow I will probably lose my nerve again.)
> 
> **Warning:** There is a scene in this chapter which kind of has some _mildly dubious consent_, in that the POV character is just sort of guessing, based on context clues, that the other character probably likes what's happening. And he's correct, obviously. It also doesn't go very far, but since there's no explicit consent, anyone who might find that sort of thing troublesome should give this a miss or proceed with caution

**BAZ**

Snow doesn’t usually shower in the mornings, so when he did, the morning after I returned to Watford, I thought he might have gotten into a whole new routine while I was gone. _Maybe I’ll have to fight him over who gets the morning shower_, I thought.

That didn’t sound like the worst idea, actually. Him tackling me to the ground again after we get in an argument, being close enough to feel his warmth seep into me. It has its appeal.

On second thought, getting into another physical altercation with Snow would just be tempting fate. There’s nothing hotter than Snow, all riled up, oozing magic and cursing my name. (It’s a wonder I’ve never lost all sense and kissed him in the heat of battle.) (I’m pathetic enough; it could happen.)

At least, I thought there wasn’t anything hotter, but when he came out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist—must have forgotten to bring a change of clothes in with him—I thought there was a good chance it would kill me.

I closed my eyes quickly, pretending I was still asleep. Not that I would be able to get that mental image out of my head for a while. Simon Snow in nothing but a towel, water dripping from his hair in rivulets down his bare chest—it would destroy anybody.

He’s been doing that a lot lately. Destroying me by merely existing in front of me.

He’s taken up jogging, it seems, which means running around in joggers after class every afternoon. Sometimes I’ll be in the room when he gets back from a run, and I’ll get to see his t-shirt clinging to him in patches of sweat. It should be disgusting. It’s not.

One time, when I got to the room just as he was leaving in his jogging getup, I used the opportunity for a bit of _me time_, in the hope that I’d find him less distracting when he returned, flushed and panting. It didn’t work.

I know his routine well enough now that I think I can avoid him in the room completely if I just take my time after football practice and don’t rush back. It’s good for me. Staying late to hone my skills and letting off steam in a productive way.

And steering clear of Snow.

* * *

**SIMON**

Things are kind of boring here now that Baz is back. He hasn't done anything to me since I tackled him on the lawn last week. I know he's plotting something—obviously—but there's not really much for me to do. It's been too quiet lately.

Ever since I told the Mage I wasn’t leaving Watford, that first day when he said he wanted to take me away, to keep me safe, I’ve hardly heard from him at all. Usually he’d have me going on some sort of mission for him, or training for something. Anything to keep the boredom from settling in my veins.

At least wondering where Baz was—what he was plotting, what he was up to—took up enough of my time and energy that I didn’t get bored for a few days. Penny says I’ve got too much energy now, actually, and suggested I get some exercise. (Apparently she’s sick of my leg bouncing all through mealtimes and lessons—any time I have to sit still, really.)

I opted for jogging, because it’s simple and doesn’t require me to learn how to use any of the machines in the fitness centre. (I don’t see the point in running on a treadmill, anyway, when I can just go outside and get fresh air while I do.)

I’ve been going for a run every afternoon for the past few days—it’s been nice to have an outlet, something to focus on, a goal. It’s what’s been missing since the Mage got too busy to give me any assignments. _Slay this, find that, save the magickal world._ It’s good to have an objective.

And right now my objective is_ just fucking run_.

I like to circle the grounds, outside the moat, and wave at Ebb along the way if I see her out with the goats. She doesn’t seem to be out today—in fact, I hardly see anyone at all. The clouds overhead make me think it’s going to rain soon, so I decide to finish my circuit and head back inside quickly.

As I approach the football pitch, I see a lone figure running back and forth with such speed and grace that it can only be one person.

I don’t particularly want to see Baz right now. I feel like he’s everywhere lately, since he finally deigned to show up this term, though I don’t know that he actually spends that much more time in our room when I’m there. His presence is just… more noticeable, I guess. Inescapable.

He gives the football a hard kick in the direction of the goal, but it veers off-course towards me instead. I don’t think he noticed I was here, or he wouldn’t have risked making such a mistake in front of me. I imagine he’s swearing under his breath now, though I’m too far away to tell.

I stop and pick up the ball as it rolls to my feet, and find Baz fuming at me from halfway down the pitch when I look up again.

He clenches his hands and folds his arms, shifting his weight on his legs impatiently. “Kick it back, Snow,” he shouts when I don’t make any move to return it.

I kind of like this. For once, I have something he wants, and I can refuse to let him have it. He doesn’t keep his wand on him during practice, so it’s not like he can just spell it back, either. He’s at my mercy.

“You want me to kick it?” I say, playing dumb.

“Just kick it, or I’ll kick you!”

I shrug and drop the ball to the ground by my feet, but instead of kicking it back to him, I send it flying into the woods. He looks more surprised than angry at first, but then comes storming over to me and I realize my prank may have been a bad idea.

“Get the fucking ball back, Snow,” he says once he’s only a few paces away, looking like he’s ready to wring my neck.

“You get it,” I say, sticking my chin out. (I can’t let him think I’m afraid of him.) “You’re the one who missed the goal, after all.”

He stops mere inches from my face and glares down at me. I catch a whiff of his fancy soap underneath the musky scent of his sweat—though he hardly breaks a sweat, the tosser—and it pisses me off. Of course he still smells good after running around, he’s just so bloody perfect.

I breathe him in a moment too long and swallow nervously.

“Go get the ball,” he says with an eerie calm, “or next time I’m practicing with your head.”

I hold my ground, staring him down, like it’s a challenge. “Make me.”

He’s glaring at me so intensely, it’s almost a wonder he hasn’t set me on fire with his mind already. (If he were me, he probably would have by now, whether he wanted to or not.)

His eyes flick down to my neck, and I think he might seriously be considering biting me right here and now. He certainly looks ready to attack. But he takes a sudden step back and then runs off towards the woods, in the direction I kicked the ball.

I turn and watch him run off, though I can’t quite understand what happened. Why did he give in so quickly?

“Hey!” I call after him, but he doesn’t give me any sign of acknowledgement. Next thing I know, I’m chasing after him—I just want an answer. “Is that it? You give up, just like that?”

“Fuck off, Snow,” he says, barely glancing over his shoulder at me as he keeps running. His pace slows a little once he enters the woods, but he seems to know his way well enough to move through the trees rather swiftly.

The clouds above are getting darker, making it harder for me to see under the cover of the trees. I mostly just follow the sound of Baz’s movement. He’s not going very deep into the woods, since the ball couldn’t have either, but it’s far enough that I’m no longer sure where we are.

I hear his footsteps slow to a stop ahead of me, but I have no idea how far ahead—not until I crash right into his back and we land in a heap on the ground. He clambers to get back up, but I refuse to let him get away until he explains himself, so I grab him before he can escape.

“Crowley, Snow, what do you want?” he says, trying to push me off of him.

I throw my weight at him to hold him down. “I want to know why you’re being so weird!”

“_I’m_ the one being weird?”

“Yes!” I say as he struggles to free his arms from my grip. “Why did you give up so easily?”

“You’re too stubborn and I was bored,” he says, practically spitting the words at me. “You’re boring to me, Snow.”

“I’m _boring_ to you?” I growl, feeling frustration and magic bubble up to my skin. I slide my hands up to his wrists so I can pin them to the ground by his head. “What, am I supposed to be your entertainment, then?”

He doesn’t say anything, but I hear his breathing change. I can just make out his face from this close, and he looks completely bewildered. Like I’ve done something so surprising, he can hardly believe it.

I’m basically draped over him now, one knee up by the side of his waist and the other pressing firmly into the ground between his legs, as I hold myself above him, bracketing his head. I feel strangely powerful from up here, but then it hits me: this is just like my dream.

It’s just like my dream, only now I’m the one overpowering him.

I shouldn’t find that so thrilling.

My pulse is pounding in my ears as I stare down at him. All I can hear now is breathing. Mine and his. Too shallow and too fast and too desperate.

The dream keeps coming back to me, no matter how much I try to tamp it down, and I find myself accidentally staring at his mouth a little too long. _I know how those lips feel_, I think, and then, _No, I absolutely do not_.

His mouth snaps shut abruptly, and he closes his eyes as well, frowning in pain. I didn’t think I was hurting him that much—I’m barely touching him. Besides, he could throw me off if he really needed to. He just likes to mess with me.

I shift my weight forward, from one knee to the other, and realize he might not be in pain, after all.

His breath catches in his chest, and I think for a second that it’s possible I’m dreaming again. This feels too real, though. I mean, it’s _surreal_, obviously, but there’s no way I’m imagining this. I even lower my hips into him a bit, just to make sure it’s what I think it is; Baz is at least half hard against the top of my thigh. (Does that mean he’s not a vampire? I’ve no idea how vampires work.) (Maybe I should ask him some time.) (Er, maybe not.)

The strangest part about this is that he hasn’t knocked me over yet, denying everything. He just stifles a groan as I push down with my hips a little more.

_He must be even more hard up for physical attention than I am_, I think, and then realize it’s possible I’m just as hard up…

I mean, as far as I know, Baz has never had a girlfriend. And Agatha and I—Well, it was never really like that. I figured we’d get there some day. Or we just wouldn’t. Which was fine by me, really. Being with her seemed more important than _being with_ her, in that sense.

Anyway, that’s all this is. Physical attention. Friction. Body heat. (Though, admittedly, Baz doesn’t really give off much.) It could happen to anyone in this situation. Just because the strangled sounds he’s trying not to make every time I rock my hips against him are oddly arousing doesn’t mean I’m into this. Into him.

He keeps his eyes shut—probably so he can pretend I’m someone else, anyone else—but I can’t stop watching him. He’s biting his lip and straining his neck, although he’s not actively resisting. If anything, I’d say he likes this, but I don’t let myself think about it too hard.

If I let myself think about it too hard, I might stop.

Maybe I should stop.

_Fuck_, I don’t want to stop.

But his breathing is getting heavier and his mouth is hanging open—rather invitingly—and I know that if I don’t stop, I’m going to do something monumentally stupid.

His eyes shoot open when I pull back suddenly; he looks at once aroused, irritated, and mortified. I can’t say I mind this look on him. Once again, I have something he wants, and I can refuse to let him have it. I could leave him here, just like this. All wound up with no release.

The anger on his face intensifies when I sit back on my heels and give him an innocent smile.

I try to adjust myself discreetly in my joggers as I stand, but there’s only so much leeway to hide something like this. (At least it’s better than a football kit, I notice.) (Those shorts really leave nothing to the imagination, do they?)

He sits up quickly, hugging his knees into his chest and angling his face away from me, like he’s embarrassed.

I can’t help but feel a little smug as I leave. _Not so boring now, am I?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. It's been about 8 million years since I updated this, but I'm a disorganized mess and I jumped the gun when I first starting posting this fic. (I really hope there won't be a gap that large again, but apparently this is what happens when I post WIPs.)
> 
> As usual, many thanks to the Circle of Tears, [The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff) and [WarriorBeeoftheSea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarriorBeeoftheSea), for beta-ing this fic, and also for providing EXTRA SPECIAL CONTENT FOR THIS CHAPTER. 🥳🥳🥳All of the book excerpts Simon reads (from a fictional series called _The Stakes of Love_) were lovingly crafted by these two amazing writers, and I am beyond thrilled to finally get to feature them.
> 
> And now, on to the chapter that I like to call "The Great British Jerk-Off."

**BAZ**

_What. The absolute. Fuck_.

I have no idea what that was about. And I really don’t want to find out.

Snow knows too much, and now one of us has to be eliminated. And I fear that it must be me.

There’s no way for me to come back from this. It’s not like I can just apologize. _“Sorry I got turned on when you pinned me to the ground, but I’m so touch-starved and in love with you that I couldn’t help it.”_ Can’t imagine that would go over well.

He knew what he was doing, too. Not that I think it was premeditated, but when he stopped, he had that look. That _I’ve got you now_ look. And he does. He has me. He always has me.

But I didn’t want him to know that.

I wait until I’m absolutely sure he’s gone before I return to the changing room, to get my uniform and my wand, but I don’t go back to our room. I don’t know what to do.

I’m rather lacking in options at the moment. Either one of us has to be destroyed, or we both pretend nothing happened. But I don’t think Snow’s that good of an actor. Especially since he thinks he’s won; there’s no way he’ll let that go.

The only other choice is retaliation.

It’s not as though it went unnoticed. Snow’s _physical reaction_. Granted, his probably had more to do with sexual frustration after his girlfriend dumped him than any sort of _inclination_ towards me of that nature. But still. It might give me an in.

Everything with Snow is so black and white, I suspect it would be rather stressful for him to have to question something about himself that he’d taken for granted. And only someone with very malicious intentions would go out of their way to push him towards these questions…

* * *

**SIMON**

> Sterling leans into Adrian, his eyes still closed and brings his mouth to Adrian’s ear. He whispers, and Adrian can barely hear it. He feels it more than anything, a gust of air hitting his ear in the shape of the words “I am a vampire, darling. And I want you.”

_This can’t be right._

I’m pretty sure the characters in _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ didn’t hook up with people from dating apps. And I’m pretty sure none of them were vampires.

Actually, I’m not one hundred percent sure on that, but I’m assuming there weren’t _people having sex with vampires_.

> “A… a _what_?” Adrian pulls away from Sterling. This must be a joke. Or a weird sex thing. Adrian knows he has a lot to learn about the gay scene.
> 
> Sterling looks at him like he feels sorry for his ignorance. “A vampire. Surely you know what a vampire is, Adrian, love.”
> 
> Adrian gapes at him. “Like… as a euphemism? Is this a gay thing? Like a bear or something?”
> 
> Sterling laughs, and the sound makes Adrian’s insides twist with arousal. “No, darling. It means that I…”
> 
> He pulls Adrian close again by the belt loops.
> 
> “…want to suck your blood…”
> 
> He licks a stripe behind Adrian’s ear; Adrian can’t help the moan that escapes him.
> 
> “…and your cock…”
> 
> He reaches his hand down to cup Adrian’s girth through his trousers.
> 
> “…but maybe not in that order.”
> 
> Adrian's head is spinning. Sterling is a _vampire._ An incredibly _fit_ vampire, palming Adrian's growing erection in the hallway.

What the fuck am I reading?

I flip to the front cover of the book, then back to the page I’m on. There’s no way this is the right book.

There’s no way we’ve been assigned to read:

> Sterling smirks, and slips his hand into Adrian's briefs. "You can come _inside_ once you've _come_ out here." He strokes the length of Adrian's cock for emphasis. 

(Also, the guy’s name is _Adrian_, not _Dorian_. That probably should have been a tip-off right away.)

I should just put this down, right now, and go ask Penny what the fuck is going on. Maybe I got a messed up copy.

…Then again, I think I’m almost done this chapter, so I might as well just finish it.

> Sterling strokes hard, mercilessly. "You don't come until I say you do."
> 
> Adrian whines. The pleasure pulses hard through him, verging on pain. He feels like he might explode, with no release in sight. 
> 
> _"Please!" _
> 
> Sterling continues stroking, ratcheting Adrian closer and closer to overstimulation. To _agony. _
> 
> And that's when Adrian hears the scrape of keys in the front door of the building. Just down the hall and around a bend. 
> 
> "Please. _Please!_ You can't leave me like this." He groans, and surges against Sterling's hand. "Your neighbour will see."
> 
> Sterling chuckles. "You don't want to be laid out, aching and needy, and begging to _come, _when my neighbour walks down the hall? You don't want to be _caught_ like this?" 
> 
> Adrian shakes his head. _"Please, no."_
> 
> "I could just _stop_. Let you pull up your trousers, and be done with it."
> 
> Adrian sobs. _"Need_ to come. I'll die if I don't."
> 
> Sterling considers this, still stroking Adrian. The key is still scraping in the lock. "You can come once that blasted fool manages to unlock the door."

Well.

I have to know what happens next, don’t I?

* * *

I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying in my bed, reading, but I’m nearly through twenty-six chapters of this book already. They’re short chapters, but still.

It’s kind of like a train-wreck that you can’t look away from, if that train-wreck gave you a major hard-on. (Wait, that sounds weird.)

In any case, I tried to put the book down after the first few chapters—got up, changed into my pyjamas, got settled in for the night—but I just had to keep reading. I was invested in the characters, or whatever.

That’s all this is. Empathy. Adrian seems to really enjoy what’s going on, so I’m happy for him. And I want to get off. Er, I want him to get off. I mean—Fuck.

> Adrian swallows as he approaches Sterling’s door. It’s a stupid fucking idea, being here, but he just can’t seem to help it. (He wonders if maybe Sterling’s thralled him to keep coming back.) (He wonders if that’s even possible_, _but considering he didn’t know vampires were _real _a few weeks ago, he’s not sure he should be so narrow-minded about the supernatural.) 
> 
> He’s just lifting his fist to knock when the door opens.
> 
> “Hello, darling,” Sterling says. “Won’t you come inside?” 
> 
> ** _CHAPTER 27_ **
> 
> It doesn’t take them long to get naked.
> 
> Or rather, Adrian’s naked, completely starkers and laid out on Sterling’s bed while Sterling undresses himself, inch by agonizingly slow inch. 
> 
> “I was thinking we’d try something..._else_ tonight,” Sterling purrs as he drops his belt to the floor. The pale skin of his chest is practically glowing in the moonlight coming through the window. 
> 
> _Something else? _Adrian thinks. 
> 
> “Oh?” he squeaks. 
> 
> Sterling’s lips turn up in a smirk. “Yes.” He runs his tongue along his teeth, and Adrian’s completely mesmerized by it. (He sort of _hates _how completely mesmerized he is, but there’s nothing for it.) “How would you feel, darling, if I told you I want to be inside you?”
> 
> _This is it, _Adrian thinks. _He’s finally gonna bite me, gonna sink his fangs into me. _
> 
> Adrian’s not sure how he feels about that. A little bit, well..._thrilled_, if he’s perfectly honest with himself. 
> 
> “You’ve been rendered speechless,” Sterling _tsks _as he removes his watch and sets it on his bedside table. “That’s very encouraging—”
> 
> “No!” Adrian shakes his head. “I mean _yes, _it’s just. Never done that before, so—”
> 
> Sterling’s eyes narrow. “Obviously. You’ve not been with any men besides me.” Sterling drops his trousers and his pants in one swift motion, and Adrian’s wondering how someone can slip out of their clothes so gracefully. (Is it a vampire thing? Is it just a _Sterling _thing?) “Or have you?” 
> 
> “What?”
> 
> Sterling’s crawling up onto the bed now, crawling until he’s hovering above Adrian. His eyes are predatory—he _is _a predator, after all—and questioning, his cock hanging hard and heavy between his thighs. 
> 
> “Have you been with other men? Have you _lied _to me?”
> 
> “What? No! What’s that got to do with you biting me?” 
> 
> Sterling cocks his head and looks at Adrian like he’s pathetically stupid. “_Biting _you? Who said anything about _biting _you?” 
> 
> “You did! Just now, about the. The being inside me—”
> 
> Sterling huffs a laugh and smirks again. “Not like _that._” He traces his tongue along his teeth again. “Though I can’t say I’d mind…”
> 
> Adrian feels a bit like he’s short-circuited. “O_-oh_.”
> 
> Sterling’s eyebrow quirks. It only reminds Adrian of how idiotic he probably sounds. “Yes,” Sterling mocks. “_Oh._”

I’m a bit surprised when I turn the page to see that so much of the text has been highlighted. Not with a regular highlighter pen, though. It’s almost like a visual effect; I can only see it at certain angles. I think it was highlighted with magic. There’ve been a few highlighted lines and sections so far in the book, but this chapter seems to be full of them. It keeps drawing my eye to specific lines over and over. Lines like…

> "Touch me, darling," Sterling sighs, and Adrian finds himself flattening his tongue against the sensitive skin behind Sterling's ear. It’s a bit of a thrill when he hears the shake of Sterling’s breath. 

And…

> He reaches down between them then, finding Adrian’s cock with his hand and giving it one slow, teasing pull. “Aren’t you ready for your next lesson?”

And…

> Adrian _wants. Fuck, _does he want. He’s not sure how many fingers Sterling has inside him now, but it doesn’t feel like _enough—_

I pull on my hair, trying to think about anything other than how much I want to jerk off right now. Because that would just be… wrong.

Though I’m not entirely sure why, at this point.

Because the characters are both guys? That doesn’t seem like it should matter. It doesn’t mean I’m… Even if it did, that’s not that bad, right?

Maybe it’s because one of them’s a vampire. That’s clearly wrong. Getting off with a vampire. (I can’t help but think about the other day—in the woods—and swallow.)

> Adrian doesn't know what it feels like to be a falling star—or _hell, _a star going supernova—but he'd wager it feels something like _this_: everything that he is building closer to the crest with each languid thrust of Sterling's hips, and the way it feels like something's about to crash inside of him as they rock faster against each other, the way he keeps forgetting to _breathe, _and it doesn't even matter—

It’s so hot in here.

No one even has to know.

The room still smells like Baz…

_Fuck_.

* * *

**BAZ**

The air is thick with Snow’s magic when I get to our room. At first, I figure he’s once again worked himself into a strop about something, but when I walk in and find him lying in his bed reading _The Picture of Dorian Gra_y with his hand in his pyjama bottoms, I realize this is something else entirely.

“Reading anything good, Snow?” I ask as I let the door slam behind me and walk over to my desk, decidedly _not_ looking at him.

He swears, and I can hear his bed creaking as he scrambles to sit up.

“I guess you must _really_ enjoy Wilde, hmm?” I say smugly.

“_Jesus Christ_, did you do this?” he says, and I look over to see him sitting at the head of his bed with knees tucked up in front of him, waving the book in the air.

I smirk. “Do what?”

“Replace the text of this book with—With—”

“With what, Snow?”

“With—With—” His face is getting redder, scrunched up in frustration. “Sexy vampires, or whatever!”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “And why would I do that?”

“To mess with me, obviously!”

“I don’t know, you seemed perfectly content—”

“_Baz_,” he barks. I must have really gotten to him. Excellent. “Please fuck off and give me some privacy.”

His eyes are closed and he’s hugging his knees to his chest, like it pains him that I’m here, not letting him wank. Poor bastard.

I turn my back on him again and gather up my pyjamas. “This is my room as much as it is yours, Snow. I have every right to be here.”

He doesn’t say anything as I head to the ensuite to change for bed, but I can tell he’s fuming. I half expect him to try and rub one out while I’m in the bathroom, though when I return, I can tell he hasn’t. He’s turned the lights off and is lying in his bed, under a single sheet, and he clearly hasn’t dealt with the matter at hand yet. (I wonder if he knows how well I can see him in the dark.)

“Finished your book, then?” I say as I make my way to my own bed and settle in.

He groans in frustration, but in this context, it sounds positively pornographic. “I fucking hate you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, I can assure you.”

He makes a disgruntled little _hmmph_, but doesn’t say anything else. I can hear his bedsheets rustling, though, and when I look over at him, he’s squirming to get comfortable. With a very persistent problem.

“Would you stop making such a fuss,” I snap. The string of desperate sounds he’s making has given me my own problem.

“Fuck,” he moans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I can’t sleep like this.”

“Then just sort yourself out and be done with it.”

“What?”

“It shouldn’t take you long; I can’t imagine you’ve got much stamina.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You take atrociously short showers, is all.”

“I—That’s—That doesn’t—I’m not—”

“I’m guessing that’s why things didn’t work out with Wellbelove,” I continue, though I know it’s a risk to taunt him about her these days, even with the Anathema. “Couldn’t last long enough to satisfy her.”

“Fuck off, Baz, you don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he says. He sounds even more restless.

“All I’m saying is, you know how long I take in the shower.” _Oh, fuck, why did I say that?_

“I could last just as long as you, you prick.”

“Prove it, then.” The words are out of my mouth before I fully realize what I’m saying.

“_What?_”

I knew I shouldn’t have talked about _wanking_ with Snow, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to goad him like that. And now, here I am, lying in my bed a few feet away from him, rock hard at the thought of him _taking care of himself_ right now.

I could wait for it to go away. I’m not as pathetically weak as he is; I can control myself.

_But why should I have to?_

“I’m saying,”—I resist the urge to reach for the bulge in my pyjamas, even under the blankets—“prove that you can outlast me. Or was that just a lot of big talk, with nothing to back it up?”

“What, you mean _now?_” he asks incredulously, squinting over at me like he can’t quite see my face.

“Scared, O Courageous Chosen One?”

His mouth flaps open for a second before he clamps it shut and glares up at the ceiling. “How would I even know if you’re… participating?” he says. “You could just pretend; it’s not like I can see you in the dark.”

“Are you saying you want the lights on so you can watch me jerk off, Snow?”

“_Jesus_—No, I—I just mean—Like, you could just—I should—” He growls and tears at his hair, then turns his head to face me again. “How about blankets off, pyjamas on? I can make out your basic outline so I’ll know if you’re not playing along.”

I swallow down the nerves rising in my oesophagus. Simon Snow is going to watch me wank. (He’s going to watch the _basic outline_ of me wanking.)

“Fine,” I say, silently cursing the way my voice comes out strangled.

“Right, then.” He nods and faces the ceiling again, though I notice him glance at me a couple times as he takes hold of the top edge of the sheet draped over him, like he’s waiting to see if I’m really going to do it.

I can’t back down now. I can’t forfeit. I slowly push the covers down my chest and try to steady my breath.

It’s not as if he can really see all that much, anyway. Outlines. Not the way I can see him. I can see everything. The skin of his bare chest, shining grey in the moonlight. The folds in the fabric of his pyjamas, straining over his erection, before he puts his hand on top of it and squeezes once. The way his lower lip is pulled in between his teeth, muffling his soft cry of relief after waiting so long.

I may have overestimated my self-control, I now realize, because there’s a nonzero chance that I will come in my pants as soon as I see—and hear—Snow touch himself in earnest.

I pry my eyes off him and snag my wand from the nightstand to quietly cast **_Let it slip_** on my hand, before reaching down the front of my pyjamas. If I’m going to get myself off watching Snow get himself off, I’m damn well going to enjoy it.

He doesn’t use any such spell, just reaches in and grabs himself with abandon, eyes squeezed shut. While he’s probably just too worked up and desperate to care, I choose to believe he doesn’t need a spell because he’s already leaked enough precome—a thought which makes me groan involuntarily as I give myself a slow tug.

“_Shit_, Baz,” he says, and I nearly combust at the sound of my name. “You’re actually doing it.”

I look over and see his eyes are open again, his gaze directed at the hand moving in my pants—I would be absolutely mortified if he weren’t doing the same in his. He keeps his eyes fixed there, his mouth falling open as I hear his breathing get heavier. _He really is watching me wank, for Crowley’s sake_.

“I’m a man of my word,” I say. I buck my hips a little and thrust into my hand, while I’ve got his attention.

His breath catches, briefly.

“Did you get to the chapter,” I say in a low voice, teasing myself with long strokes, “where Sterling ties Adrian to the bed?”

“No,” Snow says, practically whimpering. I think he’s trying to match my pace, but he keeps speeding up.

“Sterling makes Adrian watch as he gets himself off,” I add. “He doesn’t even have to touch Adrian. Just the memory of him inside—”

“Baz—” he cuts in desperately. (_Why am I not audio recording this?_) “Stop, I’m—”

His hand stills for a second, and I think maybe he’s about to finish, but he just slows to my speed again. I can see the tension in his muscles, though. He’s close.

He’s still watching me, so I buck my hips again and start stroking faster. It’s a risky move—I’m also perilously close to the edge—but if I can get him to follow my lead, I think I can get him there first.

As predicted, he matches me, and I can’t help but get a little thrill at the thought of him touching himself the way I do. The way I would. As if he’s imagining it’s my hand instead…

_Fuck, I won’t last much longer_, I think, right before I hear him.

“Wait—wait—_Fuck!_” he cries out, and I let myself grin because I’ve won (and he can’t see me).

I watch him push his hips up into his hand, working frantically to wring out every last ounce of pleasure, before he settles into the mattress again, panting. With his mouth hanging open and his hair plastered to his forehead—an utterly debauched mess—it’s not long before I succumb, too.

I tip my head back, gasping for air, as I reach my peak and fall back down from it. I let myself bask in the rush of pleasant chemicals in my brain, while I still have a chance, before the inevitable shame and self-loathing can settle in.

I glance over at Snow to find him watching me again, only this time his eyes are directed at my face, and I wonder how well he can actually see me. We accidentally make eye contact and he quickly looks away.

I pretend I don’t notice.

“Any questions, Snow?” I ask smugly—like I’ve just taught him a valuable lesson—while I reach for my wand to spell myself clean. I can’t let him know that I’m terrified.

“Fuck you,” he grumbles as he gets up and stomps to the bathroom.

I pull the covers over myself and face the wall, hoping I can will myself to sleep before he comes back out.

I want to feel pleased with myself; I managed to get off with Snow—sort of—_and_ make him feel inferior. It’s everything I ever wanted.

Except it’s not. And I hate it.

* * *

I’m only pretending to be asleep when he comes back out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The competition wasn't fair; Simon wants a rematch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who's come back to keep reading this fic! And just in case it wasn't abundantly clear already, this fic is absolutely ludicrous, so don't expect to find things like "realism" and "being in character." Only nonsense lies ahead.

**SIMON**

I haven’t been able to make eye contact with Baz since the other night. It hasn’t been too difficult, since he’s been avoiding me too, as far as I can tell.

The worst part is that _I can’t stop thinking about it_. I’ve read the whole book now—some parts more than once—and it turns out he was right; Sterling does tie Adrian to the bed in one chapter. Which means Baz has actually read this book. Enough to reference specific scenes.

I don’t know what to think about that.

I’ve read over that chapter in particular a few times, actually. It’s fascinating. The way Sterling makes Adrian come without even touching him, just by telling him to. Is that a vampire thing? Do they really have psychic powers or whatever? _Vampire’s thrall_?

Could Baz do that to me?

Something ignites deep in my belly at the thought, when I read that scene again, in the light of my bedside lamp.

But it would be terrible if he could do that. He’d make it happen at the most embarrassing times, just to laugh at me. It’s not like he’d actually _want_ to get me off. To please me. That would be ridiculous.

Almost as ridiculous as me wanting him to get me off.

I don’t, of course. But after my humiliating defeat, I want… _something_.

Revenge. Vindication. A chance to get back some of my pride.

I want a rematch.

* * *

I struggle to fall asleep before Baz gets back from wherever it is he goes at night—the Catacombs, still?—and by the time he returns from the bathroom, changed and washed up for bed, I’m sitting up in mine with my bedside light on. It surprises him a moment, but he just frowns and continues toward his bed.

“Baz,” I say, stopping him in his tracks. My voice is rough, from hours without use, but I think it betrays too much of my fear right now. “I want a rematch.”

He raises an eyebrow at me, as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. He does, though. “I’ve been out all evening, Snow,” he says. “You couldn’t have sorted yourself out then?”

“That’s not—” I run a hand through my hair roughly and growl a little. “I just mean, the competition wasn’t exactly fair, was it?”

“No?” he says, leaning his hip against the desk and folding his arms.

“I mean, of course I was gonna finish first!” I say, louder than I should at this hour. I can feel my face reddening as I scratch the back of my neck. “I mean—Well, I’d just been reading that… stuff—”

“Gay vampire porn, yes.” He nods seriously.

“It’s not—Look,” I say, swinging my legs over the side of my bed as I try to rein myself in to keep from shouting at him, “I was already more turned on than you were to start with. So it’d be more fair if we started at the same level, yeah?”

He exhales a derisive laugh and turns his head to look away. “I hate to break it to you Snow, but I’m not turned on now.”

“Well, yeah, me neither!” I say, a little too emphatically to be convincing. Besides, it hardly counts as _turned on_. I’m just… agitated. “That’s my point. Level playing field.”

“You’re absolutely ridicu—” he begins, but stops when he faces my direction again to see me stand. “What are you doing?”

“Well, that’s another thing that wasn’t fair,” I say, puffing my chest to seem more confident than I am. “Doing it to ourselves, it—It would’ve been easy for you to cheat, wouldn’t it?”

I take a step towards him and he tries to back away subtly, but just bumps his desk.

“You think I cheated?” he says, and I stop in the middle of the room.

“I’m just saying you could have. Like, intentionally doing a bad job so you would last longer, right?”

“You’re saying I’m _bad at wanking_?”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing and shrug. “For all I know, yeah.”

He looks away again and rolls his eyes. “What, are you going to give me lessons, then?”

“I just thought… If we did it to each other, it would be harder to cheat, yeah?”

“What?” His head turns back to me so quick I’m surprised he doesn’t get whiplash.

“I mean, you jerk me off and I jerk you off, and first one to come, loses,” I say, though when I hear it out loud it sounds ludicrous. But he looks a bit panicked now, and I can’t back down. “Unless you’re scared you’ll lose…”

His eyes grow angry, and I know I’ve gotten to him.

“Look, it’s not like anyone will know, either way,” I add. “So you can back down. But _I’ll_ know.”

He stares down at the floor, as though he’s contemplating it, before looking back at me with his jaw set. “Fine,” he says tightly.

I blink at him for a second—somehow that answer still surprised me, even though I know he never misses a chance to one-up me—and swallow. “Right. Okay. Well.”

He leans back on his desk when I continue towards him, like he’s afraid of me. “What are you—”

“We kinda have to be close enough to touch for this, don’t we?” I say, stopping in front of him as he eyes me warily. I think maybe he’s going to back down. I think maybe he should.

I think maybe I don’t want him to.

He swallows this time, and nods slightly.

I stand in front of him for what feels like ages, neither of us sure where to look or how to begin.

“Um, okay, I guess I’ll…” I say as I bring one hand up to gently hold the side of his neck, so I can brush my thumb over the spot behind his ear.

His breath hitches and his eyelids flutter shut for a second before he pulls my hand away. “What was that?”

“Well, I have to get you turned on first, don’t I?” I lower my voice half way through the sentence when I realize I’m speaking way too loud. “I figured you liked this sort of thing; you highlighted it in the book.”

“That’s cheating,” he hisses, “since I don’t know what turns you on.”

“You mean besides gay vampires?” I reply jokingly. His eyes widen a little and I feel my cheeks flush.

If I didn’t know any better, though, I’d say he was blushing too. “Well, I can’t help you there,” he says.

“Right,” I say, ruffling my hand through my hair again as I inch a bit closer to him. I glance down at his fancy pyjama shirt then back up at him. “Are you gonna…?”

“Not all of us feel the need to parade around shirtless, Snow.”

“I just thought you might not want to get… you know… all over it.”

He scowls for a moment before hastily unbuttoning the front of his shirt, which he leaves hanging open but doesn’t remove. I push the shirt open wider, my fingertips grazing the cool skin of his stomach, and tuck it behind his back to get it out of the way.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Baz without a shirt on—I suppose he technically has one on now, though—and it’s oddly fascinating. I absent-mindedly trail my fingers up and down his chest, and he shivers under my featherlight touch.

“That’s cheating,” he says quietly. (_Good to know_, I think, even though I don’t plan on doing this ever again.)

I let my hands fall to my sides. “All right, so, should I just…?” I say, reaching my hand forward a little, without raising it.

“Wait,” he says, and tenses up like he’s trying to back away some more but can’t. “Er, how, um…”—his eyes flit down briefly—“_ready_ are you?”

_Well, this is embarrassing_. “Enough,” I say, since he’ll find out the truth soon—that I’m already half hard just from the anticipation. “You?”

He nods and tentatively reaches out to brush his knuckle against me, right above my pyjama bottoms. His hand is like ice on my skin, and makes me suck in a sharp breath—but it’s not unpleasant. Oddly enough.

I hook a finger in the waistband of his pyjamas and shuffle closer to him, so neither of us have to reach as far. Though I find myself repeatedly wondering what the fuck I’m doing.

I don’t think I can look him in the eye now, either, so I just stare down at his chest as I drop my hand a few inches, cupping it against him. He lets out a shaky breath of air.

“This okay?” I say, lowering my voice so only the two of us could possibly hear me. I glance up at him and he nods again, firmly shutting his eyes.

“Yes, but don’t keep asking.” He says it like a threat, but it sounds pretty empty when I have him literally in my hand.

He lets his own hand drop a bit, too, though it just hovers awkwardly in the space between us until I lean into him a little more. He jolts at the contact.

“Crowley,” he says under his breath when he opens his eyes. “You weren’t joking.”

I firm my grip on him and give him a pointed look.

“Touché,” he adds, palming me through the front of my pyjamas.

We lock eyes briefly, and I give him a nearly imperceptible nod of my head before lowering my gaze to the collar of his shirt.

His motions are much more slow and methodical than mine—the kind I only treat myself to when I have lots of time to really enjoy it. Whereas I’m just giving him the standard, _my roommate will be back any minute so let’s knock one out quickly_. Is he trying to let me win, or something?

His pyjamas are soft and silky, but they bunch in my hand as I move it, making the whole thing rather awkward—it’s awkward enough from this angle anyway. I’m not used to it.

I stop and reach for his waistband again, glancing up at him without lifting my head. “Is it okay if I…?” I ask with a small tug on his drawstring.

He nods, but his head is also lowered and his eyes are closed again. My eyes land on his lips, just for a second, but I close them before my mind can run too far with that visual.

I untie his drawstring and find myself leaning in even closer. I can feel his breath on my shoulder. He’s still rubbing against me, agonizingly slow, and it takes all my mental strength not to allow myself to thrust into his hand. I’m still trying to win this competition after all. (Though I’m starting to feel like I don’t care if I lose.)

His hand stills when I slip mine under his waistband, and he lets out a breathy _fuck_ as I take hold of him properly. I want to make him say it again.

If I thought the angle was awkward before, it’s much worse from here, with his waistband in the way. My elbow’s sticking out and my wrist is starting to cramp already, but he’s making these little sounds every time he exhales, and I don’t want to stop.

He lifts his free hand off the desk and hooks both his thumbs into the elasticized waistband of my Watford-issued pyjamas, pushing them right down around my thighs.

Well, that solves that issue, then.

I scrabble to push his down as well, but he takes my cock firmly in his hand, and I groan, my legs nearly buckling beneath me. I don’t know how this is different than wanking—it’s just a hand, after all—but it’s oddly thrilling. I start to think there’s a good chance I might lose, yet again.

He picks his wand up off his desk and lets go of me long enough to cast some sort of lubricating spell before taking me in his hand again—_sweet Jesus_.

I don’t know that spell (and even if I did, I wouldn’t trust myself to use it). I don’t even use lube, I just—

His eyes go wide as he watches me spit into my palm, and I can almost see his cheeks flush, just barely.

“You’re disgusting,” he says, but there’s no weight to his words when he looks at me like that. When he grips my cock more firmly and moans, despite obvious efforts not to. “Absolutely vile.”

A breathy laugh escapes my throat. “I know.”

He swears under his breath a few more times. I find myself wondering what other noises I can coax out of him, but I shove that thought aside. That’s not why I’m doing this. This is about my dignity. (Though I don’t feel particularly dignified at the moment.)

The tension in my body swells, and I hunch forward, stopping short of resting my forehead on his shoulder. I hear him inhale sharply, though it sounds almost like he's wincing. I turn my head slightly to look at him, and I'm startled by how close his face is.

“Your cross,” he says in a low, almost feral voice.

“What?”

“If you want me to come, you have to take off your cross.”

I blink at him, but neither of us stops. “But—”

“_Anathema,_” he adds quickly.

“Right, yeah,” I say as I pull the chain for my cross over my head and toss it aside. I think Baz as good as admitted that he’s a vampire, but my mind’s too caught up with another thing he said.

_‘If you want me to come.’_

I do.

He grunts appreciatively, his head still lowered and his hand still stroking my cock, slowly but firmly. He’s going about half the speed I am and it’s driving me mad, because it’s just enough to bring me to the edge, but not enough to tip me over.

I’m not sure what his strategy is here—he’s either trying to pull a _tortoise and hare_ situation, or he intends to leave me hanging. I inadvertently whimper at the thought.

Gripping his shoulder with my other hand, I lean in closer to steady myself. His breath’s coming faster now, hotter, and he tilts his head back, like he did last night. Like he did right before he finished, barely a minute after I did. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I saw his neck, long and exposed, like it is now.

I think about licking it. But I don’t.

I lower my head against the hand on his shoulder and breathe as I try not to chase my own release in his hand, since I’m sure he’s close. I’m panting onto his neck—how embarrassing—but I think he’s too caught up to notice.

“Fuck—” he says as his hand on me stalls. (Am I going to get hard every time he swears from now on, like a reflex?)

I guess I win.

He shudders and leans in toward me as I stroke him through it. His head is on my shoulder now, clinging to my back with his free arm. It’s strangely satisfying, watching him come undone under my touch like this, but I can’t help but feel the victory is a little bittersweet.

Probably because I’ll have to finish myself off in the bathroom after we— _Or maybe not_.

He’s still got his hand around me, only now he picks up the pace a bit. I didn’t realize how close I was until that slight shift. I have to clench my eyes shut or I’ll get dizzy, and I firm up my grip on his shoulder.

“Come on, Snow,” he whispers, raising gooseflesh all over me.

I whimper again. So much for my dignity.

“Come on,” he repeats, though I can feel his lips brush against my neck when he speaks. His breath is warm against my skin—not hot—as he mutters encouragement in my ear.

It’s probably not a great idea to let a vampire’s mouth near my neck like this, I know. But I’m so close, I can’t even care right now. And the thought of him biting me—wanting me enough to bite me—like in the book…

Well, the thought’s enough to send me over the edge, a string of _oh god_ and _fuck yes_ spilling out of my mouth—and maybe a couple instances of Baz’s name, it’s all a bit of a rush—as I spill over his hand.

He keeps holding me as I ride it out, and I collapse against him, my legs now jelly. I can’t tell if I want to laugh or cry, but I feel good. So good.

It takes me a moment to realize I’m practically hugging him now, with his hand trapped between our bodies, covered in—

“**Clean as a whistle**,” he says, and I turn my head to see that he’s picked up his wand off the desk again with his clean hand. (It’s not his dominant hand, but he’s proficient enough at casting that it doesn’t seem to matter.)

I laugh into his shoulder—I still can’t hold myself up yet—and he slides his hand out from between us, letting it rest on my hip for a moment. Like he’s holding me. Like he’s—

Pushing me away.

Oh.

Right.

I take a step back and we both pull up our pyjamas without meeting the other’s eyes.

“Well, Snow,” he says, buttoning his shirt swiftly. “Still think I’m bad at wanking?”

I watch him, stupefied, as he heads back to the ensuite. Maybe I didn’t win.

* * *

**BAZ**

Dev and Niall don’t say anything when I join them for breakfast—they never do—but I see them exchange a look, and it’s clear they’re judging me. The two of them can have entire conversations of _knowing looks_, and I never have a clue what they’re on about. (Is that the sort of relationship I’d have with my roommate if I didn’t actively make him hate me?) (I doubt it; making that much eye contact with the love of my life might incinerate me.)

“What?” I snap at them, and Niall smirks at me.

“Nothing, mate,” he says. Dev snickers next to him.

They both glance at my shirt, so I immediately look down and see that I misaligned the buttons, causing it to bunch up under my blazer. I’ve been under a thick fog all morning, staying in bed as late as I could to avoid facing Snow, and then rushing to make it to the dining hall before breakfast is over. (Just barely.) I suppose my mind was a bit preoccupied while getting dressed.

I came in Snow’s hand last night. And he came in mine. It’s positively surreal.

I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed or pleased with myself. Sure, I technically “lost” our little challenge, but it was worth it to see Snow fall apart like that, in my arms. I’m almost tempted to see if I can trick him into another go some time, but I know that would be a terrible idea.

Nothing good can come of this.

I hunch forward in my seat to try and re-button my shirt without drawing too much attention to myself, but Dev _whoops_, as if I’m doing a strip show, and I hold my blazer closed tight over my chest.

“Fuck off,” I grumble at him as I get up to go and find a more private spot to dress myself properly. (I don’t know any spell for getting dressed magically that doesn’t involve summoning little birds to do it.)

Most of the people who looked over when Dev made a spectacle of me are already back to minding their own business, but I notice one pair of eyes still stuck on me, following me as I make my way through the dining hall towards the exit.

I give Snow a condescending sneer and he glowers at me.

He still hates me, then.

Good.

I wouldn’t know what to do if he didn’t.

**SIMON**

“Ugh, I hate him so much,” I mutter to Penny once Baz is gone.

“I know,” she replies, like she’s not even listening to me. She’s already got her nose in a book. (I haven’t been distracted from our conversation for _that_ long, surely.)

“You have no idea how evil he is, Penny!” I say, shoving half a scone in my mouth.

“I know.”

“And why did he rush out like that? He just got here!” Crumbs are flying when I speak, but this is too important.

Penny sighs and puts her book down. “I don’t know, Simon, but you’re getting awfully close to your quota already.”

“Fine.”

I aggressively butter another scone and glance towards the door, to see if he’s come back at all. My eye catches Agatha’s and I smile weakly. _Shit_.

For a second, I feel like I cheated on her—I mean, I _got off with someone else_—but then I remember that she broke up with me nearly two weeks ago, so I didn’t do anything wrong.

Except for the fact that the whole thing was very wrong.

I consider telling Penny about what happened, since she might be able to help me figure out what it all means, but doing that would imply that it means _something_. And it doesn’t. It can’t.

Baz and I are as antagonistic as ever, we’ve just found a way to spite each other and let off steam without violating the Anathema. _Maybe we should keep doing it_.

Merlin, no. Definitely not.

It’ll never happen again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It'll never happen again..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is meant to be read as a bit of a smash-cut from the last chapter, but that effect is lost when I wait a week between posting, lol. Anyway, smash-cut to: It's happening again.

**BAZ**

Simon Snow looks really good when he’s on the brink of ecstasy. (At least I tell myself that it’s ecstasy for him, the best of his life.) (I tell myself that’s the real reason he keeps challenging me again, and not for his ego.)

I have him pinned against the wall, with one of my hands clutching his hair and the other stroking him to said ecstasy. His trousers are down around his knees and his shirt is crumpled on the floor somewhere—but I’m still in my full uniform, minus the jacket. I wouldn’t let him undress me.

It’s not that I don’t want him to undress me—it’d be an actual dream come true, honestly—but I like denying him what he wants. Not giving him a chance. It’s pretty much impossible for him to win this way, groping frantically at the front of my trousers, when I have direct access. When I can run my thumb over him like this.

He moans and whines when I do, all of it auditory fodder for my future fantasies, I’m sure.

I’d like to think I’ve gotten pretty good at this over the past few days. He gets more and more vocal with each “rematch.”

I yank his head to one side and press my face to his neck—I can practically hear the shiver running through him. When I let my lips graze his skin, over one of his moles. I experimentally flick my tongue over it and he whimpers deliriously, grabbing the back of my head and forcing my open mouth against him.

“God, yes, please, just, fuck, yes, Baz, fuck—” He’s a babbling mess, thrusting up into my hand and gripping my back like he’s forgotten all about winning this competition. Chasing his ecstasy until he comes over the front of my uniform—and I can’t even bring myself to care about that right now.

He holds me tightly until the last wave has coursed through him and his whole body relaxes, slumping against the wall behind him. I take a quick step back, lest he think I simply _enjoy_ kissing his neck. (I do.) (I could spend the afternoon finding all his moles with my tongue—but that might be harder to justify, in the scope of our little _competition_.)

I cross the room to my desk and spell the mess off my clothes, and Snow laughs indignantly.

“Not fair,” he says when I look over my shoulder at him. He’s pulling his trousers back up. “You cheated.”

“Come, now, Snow,” I reply, keeping my back to him so he can’t tell quite how much I _did_ enjoy that. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

“I should at least get a chance to prove myself.” His voice is closer now, and I look back again to find him stepping quickly over to me.

He grabs my shoulder and turns me to face him, crowding me against the edge of my desk. He’s right up in my face, smelling like magic and fire and sex, and I think I might kiss him. But then his gaze drops to my neck and he pulls my tie loose, a look of determination on his face.

“What are you even doing?” I ask, betrayed by the way my voice catches when he starts unbuttoning my shirt.

“Retaliating,” he says, ghosting his fingers over my chest. “See, I was thinking—”

“That’s a first,” I quip.

His eyes narrow and he grips the front of my open shirt in his hands, pulling me in until I can feel his breath on my face. “Isn’t it just so humiliating for you?”

“Isn’t _what_ humiliating?” I say, and he pushes his hips into mine. I grunt involuntarily.

“That the _‘worst Chosen One who’s ever been chosen’_ can turn you on,” he says. He presses into me again, to make his point. “Can get you off, again and again.”

I huff a nervous laugh. “That’s hardly humiliating, after what I just did to you.”

“Yeah, but that’s me,” he says with a smug smile. “You’re always telling me how pathetic and desperate I am. But surely _Basilton Grimm-Pitch_ has a little more self-control, right?”

I try my best to sneer at him, but I’m not sure it has the desired effect, because he just smiles wider. He dips his head and places his lips on my neck, right below my jaw, and I have to lean back on the desk before my knees buckle.

“Snow,” I growl.

“Hmm?” he hums against my neck as he slides his hands down to my hips. It’s a struggle to keep myself from sighing when he trails his lips back behind my ear. It’s somehow better than I imagined.

“I—I don’t—” I can’t think. I should say something clever. I should stop him before I embarrass myself. I should…

…_not_ tip my head back to give him better access to mouth at my throat. (I’m a disappointment to myself.)

He chuckles softly, with his mouth pressed against me, before pulling back in order to unfasten my trousers. I don’t know why he has to _look_ in order to get them open, or why he _keeps looking_ after he’s pushed them down past my hips.

This wasn’t part of the unspoken agreement. It was just supposed to be groping with our eyes closed, so he can imagine I’m someone else. Someone he’d actually want to get off with. Sure, Simon Snow might be gayer than I’d initially thought, but he still hates me. There’s no way the sight of my cock will make him—

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and a dark, depraved shudder runs through me.

“You can forfeit, you know,” he says. “Tell me to stop.”

“I never forfeit,” I say as evenly as I can, but I take in a sharp breath when he brushes his fingertips over my chest again. He looks at me like he’s expecting me to tell him to stop, but I just say, “_Never_.”

He leans in closer and tilts his face up towards mine—he’s nearly as tall as I am, when I’m angled against the desk like this—almost close enough that he could kiss me. (_He’s not going to kiss me, is he?_)

“You can, though,” he says, a gentleness in his voice that I don’t recognize—at least not directed at me. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

I do my best to scowl at him. “Just get on with it.”

“Aww.” He smirks a little. (He’s not good at it.) “How romantic.”

I turn my head and huff a derisive laugh before I do something stupid and kiss that ridiculous smirk off his face. He uses the opportunity to plant his lips on my neck again, and I inadvertently arch into him. His hum of amusement vibrates over my skin, and I think there is a very, very likely chance that I will lose.

But I’m pretty sure we both know that already.

Of course I’m going to lose; the love of my life is going to jerk me off while sucking on my neck. There’s no way I wouldn’t—

_Oh_, I think, when he drops to his knees in front of me.

_Oh shit._

“Snow—” I say, my voice shattering in my throat as I tighten my grip on the edge of the desk.

He looks up at me with fake innocence, taking hold of the sides of my trousers, down around my thighs. “Something wrong?”

“No…” I think I’m dead. Proper dead. I died and I’m in some sort of cursed afterlife where Snow acts like he’s about to go down on me, but then he’ll just laugh. I’ll be hard and humiliated forever. Eternal torture.

_Or maybe not_.

He smirks again and then leans in, veering his head to my right, and kisses me on the hipbone, causing me to inhale sharply. This is actually happening. _Crowley, Simon Snow is going to suck me off._

And all because I tricked him into reading gay vampire erotica. (I can tell that’s his source of inspiration, because the way he’s mouthing at my hipbone is just like what Adrian does to Sterling in chapter thirteen.)

The view of the top of Snow’s head from this angle is not unpleasant; it takes all my restraint not to wind my fingers in hair. He’d probably accuse me of cheating if I did, somehow. Not that his suspicions would hold out very long—I know I won’t, when he wraps a hand around me and gives me one long stroke.

He lifts his head and looks back up at me. “You okay?” he asks, far too softly. I think I actually will die of embarrassment.

“I’m fine, Snow,” I snap at him, but I don’t think it quite has the bite I intend.

“Just, you’re holding your breath,” he says. He’s still got me in his hand, and it’s all I can do not to thrust into it.

I exhale an exaggerated gust. “I’m fine. If you’re going to do this, get on with it.”

I try to look down on him contemptuously, without lowering my head, but he gives me another stroke and my cool and collected façade cracks. That seems to please him. (I’d like to think his pleasure isn’t sadistic—that he actually _wants_ this—but I know that can’t be the case.)

He contemplates me for a moment, right in front of him, like he’s trying to figure out how best to proceed, but then he tentatively flicks his tongue over me, and my knees nearly give out. He licks again, and makes a sound like, _“Hmm,”_ which vibrates down his tongue. Like he’s intrigued.

_He’s intrigued by the taste of my cock, Merlin and Morgana._

And then he takes me in his mouth, which is about the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. His eyelids flutter shut and he moans a little, vibrating around me again. I white-knuckle grip the edge of the desk as his lips meet his hand around the base of my cock. (My _cock_ is in Simon Snow’s _mouth_, for fuck’s sake.) (Only in my wildest dreams…)

He’s so warm and wet—_so_ wet; is he _salivating_ over this? Fuck, what if he’s _enjoying_ this? I mean, that’s absurd. Even if he’s, well, _not completely straight_, I’m still me. We’re still us.

_Right?_

I’m not entirely sure what he’s doing, as he tries to synchronize his hand and mouth—I don’t think he’s entirely sure what he’s doing, either—but all I can think is _Yes_ and _Good_ and _More_. His enthusiasm definitely makes up for any lack of coordination.

I’m not even pretending to try and win this challenge anymore, as I rake my hand through his too-short curls to urge him on. He hums his approval when my nails scrape his scalp and I fucking _whimper_, completely against my will. I won’t last much longer. (Which means I’ll never live this down.) (I don’t particularly care, at this moment, though.)

“_Fuck_,” I say as a strangled moan wrenches itself from my throat. I clench his hair in my fist when I realize just how imminent my demise is. I’m about to come any moment now.

_I’m about to come in Snow’s mouth._

There’s no way he thought this through. Maybe he didn’t expect it to actually happen. At least not this soon. Maybe he thought he’d have more time to get out of the way before—

“_Simon_,” I say desperately, tugging his hair back. “Wait—_Fuck_—Simon, I—”

He pulls away and looks up at me, wide-eyed, as he wipes drool off his chin with the back of his free hand—the other is still wrapped around me, for fuck’s sake. “Should I stop?” he asks, though there’s nothing taunting about it. Nothing that suggests he’s mocking me for forfeiting so quickly.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he sounds _concerned_.

“Just—If you keep—I’m going to—” I stumble for words as I try to compose myself.

“You don’t want to?” he says, running his thumb along the underside of my cock. It’s still wet from his mouth.

“I didn’t think you’d want… Want me to… In your…”

“Baz,” he adds, his voice thick and gravelly as he leans in, maintaining eye contact through stubby lashes. His breath ghosts over me when he speaks. “I said I was gonna make you come.”

He’s poised over me, waiting for permission, and I nod my assent. He flicks his tongue over me once more before swallowing me down again, and I groan loudly. I’d managed to cool down ever so slightly during that brief respite, but it doesn’t take much to bring me right back to the edge.

I nearly pull him away again, but he grips my hip with his free hand, his fingertips digging into me. There’s no escape now. All I can do is give in. So I do.

I close my eyes as my head tips back, and my hips push forward on their own accord, desperate for relief.

_‘I said I was gonna make you come.’_ Fuck, I hate when he’s right.

He pulls away slowly, once I’m completely spent, and sits back on his heels, dragging his hands over his slobbery mouth. He almost looks dazed as I gather the presence of mind to pull up my trousers.

“Are you just going to sit there the rest of the day?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as I look down at him. As if I have any right to be cocky now after he just unraveled me with his tongue.

It seems to snap him back into the moment, in any case, and he lifts his knee to plant his foot on the ground, preparing to stand. He grabs my arm when I start fastening the buttons of my shirt, though, in order to pull himself up.

He’s standing far too close when he (almost) reaches my eye level. “At least you didn’t forfeit,” he says with a laugh, but not cruelly.

“I suppose this means you think you’ve won, anyway,” I reply, looking down as I finish my buttons to avoid meeting his gaze.

“Perhaps,” he says, and when I look back at him he flicks his eyebrows up as he runs his hand over his mouth again, dragging along his bottom lip. (I don’t think he realizes how delectably debauched he looks when he does that.)

“I certainly don’t think I’ve lost,” he adds with a crooked smile before walking past me to the bathroom.

I’m so fucked.

* * *

**SIMON**

Baz is watching me. I’m sure of it.

I mean, I’m always sort of sure he’s watching me, at any given time, and I’m often wrong, but this—this is pretty clear.

Every time I glance over at him during our lessons, he’s looking right at me. He doesn’t even pretend like he’s not. He just smirks or raises an eyebrow, and my cheeks get hot.

He probably thinks I _wanted_ to suck him off, yesterday. That I liked doing it. (Maybe I did, but that’s not the point.)

I wanted to feel like I had something to hold over him, but he’s been trying to rile me up all day with those little looks. Though it’s not just those looks.

We had a lab assignment in our Potions lesson, where we shared a workbench, and his knee kept bumping mine. On purpose. At one point it bumped against mine and stayed there. When I looked over at him, he had this smug expression on his face, like he knew what it was doing to me. The thought of him pressed against me…

I jerked my leg away soon after that.

The worst was probably in Greek, when all the notes he took throughout the lesson started to appear in my notebook. At first I thought it was some lucky accident that these notes—which were clearer and more thorough than mine ever are—just wrote themselves into my notebook. (I could tell it was Baz writing them, based on the handwriting, but I wasn’t sure why. Or how.)

Until the words showing up were no longer based on the lecture, but instead seemed to be passages from that vampire book—he must have read it a few times, to be able to quote it so extensively.

> Adrian whines, and thrusts forward into empty air, his cock aching and dripping precome onto the carpet. 
> 
> "Use your words, love." He wraps both arms around Adrian to rub his hands up and down his belly. "I can't give you what you need if you don't use your _words."_
> 
> "Touch me! _Please!" _
> 
> "But darling, I _am_ touching you." Sterling licks a broad stripe up the side of Adrian's neck, and then runs his fangs over the shell of Adrian's ear. 
> 
> "Make me come!" Adrian pleads.

It was from one of the earlier chapters, when Sterling gets Adrian off outside his flat. (I suppose I’ve read it a few times, too.) (Bits of it, anyway.)

I could feel my neck sweating as I tried to keep my mind focused on the lesson in front of me, but when Baz looked over his shoulder at me and fucking _winked_, I was ready to jump up out of my seat and smash his face in. Or something.

I restrained myself, however, even when I noticed Agatha turn and look between the two of us. Even when Baz winked at her, too. Even when she smiled shyly, like she was flattered. I kept my cool.

Well, as much of my cool as I could. Which was not all that much, I’ll admit.

I barely made it through our third class of the day, and as soon as we were let out, I grabbed Baz by the elbow and whisked him away into the nearest empty room I could find. Hopefully, people assumed I dragged him off so I could beat the shit out of him. (I’d considered it.)

Now that I’ve got him pinned to the inside of the door, with my forearm pressing against his collarbone, I’m weighing my options.

“Can I help you, Snow?” he asks coolly, like I couldn’t just crush his windpipe now if I wanted to. (I’m not actually sure that would do anything to him if he’s a vampire, though.) (Not that I would try, anyway.)

“You’re the worst, you know that?” I growl at him.

“And _you_ are an absolute nightmare. What’s your point?”

“You know what you did. You’re pure evil,” I say, and his lip quirks up a little. I try to ignore the flutter in my stomach when it does.

“Oh?” he replies, raising an eyebrow again. “And what are you going to do about—”

I release him and grab the back of his head in one swift motion as I plant my lips on his. I guess _that’s_ what I’m going to do.

I hadn’t really planned on kissing him. Not seriously, anyway. Though, if nothing else, this probably throws him off his game.

He freezes up under my hands at first, which feels like a small victory in itself. But then he starts _kissing me back_, and that feels like an even bigger win.

_Because I tricked him_, I think. Even though I know that’s not true.

It’s a win because I want it.

I’ve literally dreamed of this. His lips are softer than I imagined, though. And colder. (I know they were cold on my neck, but it’s still a bit of a surprise. Although not a bad one.)

I don’t think he knows what he’s doing. He’s hesitant, following my lead instead of taking charge. _Do I know how to do something better than Baz for once?_

This might be his first kiss. That probably makes me a right arsehole, taking that from him, even if he is my enemy. I start to pull away, but he chases my mouth with his, grabbing the sides of my jacket to keep me from escaping.

I guess he doesn’t mind, then.

My fingers slide into his hair as I pull his lip between mine, and he lets out this soft moaning sound, that surprises us both. He jerks his head back and stares at me, wide-eyed and blinking, like he’s just realized what he’s done. (How does he even make _that_ look good?)

“I’ve—Next class—I’m—” he stammers, raking his hand through his hair as he pushes me back with the other. He looks like he wants to say something else, but snaps his mouth shut abruptly and schools his features into a more indifferent expression before wrenching the door open.

I stay behind as he flies out, trying to give my brain a chance to catch up with what just happened.

I kissed Baz.

Baz kissed me back.

I kissed Baz more.

_I want to kiss Baz again_.

I’m so fucked.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss is not a contract, so what does it mean for Simon and Baz?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just make a Flight of the Conchords reference in that summary? Yes. I'm incorrigible. But I would like to thank everyone who's come back after I took a week off from updating. I hope it is worth the wait.

**BAZ**

“Basilton. May I have a word?”

I’m already standing from my seat when Ms. Possibelf addresses me at the end of the lesson.

“Yes, of course,” I reply, trying not to let it show how much I’m itching to get back to my room and punch Snow in the mouth with my mouth.

“The Mage contacted me today,” she says, and I bite back a smart remark. “He instructed me to find you an alternate housing arrangement for the remainder of the year.”

My fingers curl around my notebook and I clench my teeth. “Alternate housing arrangement?”

“He said that he’s aware both you and Simon have not been pleased to share a room for all these years, and now that several boys have not returned for their eighth year, there are spaces available to relocate you.”

“Relocate me?” I say, even though I could kick myself for simply repeating everything she says. Like I’m an idiot. (Like I’m Snow.) “Why not relocate Snow, then? He’s obviously the one who requested this.”

Not that I want Snow relocated either, but if he’s got such a problem sharing a room with me, then he should be the one to leave. (And there is no way I’m using a communal bathroom for the rest of the year. I _need_ the ensuite.)

“The Mage was clear that Simon should retain the current room, I’m afraid,” she says with a sympathetic look. Perhaps I’m not the only person who recognizes how unfair this whole _Mage’s Heir_ bullshit is.

Well, I’m not letting him get away with special treatment, if I can help it.

“Am I obligated to relocate?” I ask, holding my head high. “Is my room already set to refuse my entry if I try to go back?”

She exhales and it nearly sounds like a laugh. “No, nothing like that,” she says. “I’m simply giving you the option. You can think it over, if you like—”

“No,” I say, far too quickly. “No, I’d like to stay. I’ve survived seven years living with an atomic bomb, I’m sure I can handle one more.”

“Very well.” She steps aside to let me pass. “And good work on your assignment, Basilton.”

“Thank you,” I say with a nod on my way out.

My feet carry me towards Mummers House while my mind is otherwise occupied.

Why would the Mage offer to move me now, all of a sudden? He could have done so at the beginning of the term, if it was just a matter of waiting for rooms to become available.

Something must have happened to precipitate this _oh so generous_ offer. Recently.

Something like the _Mage’s Heir_ requesting to have his roommate booted out once he realized that, no, it’s really not very heterosexual to perform enthusiastic fellatio on another bloke, and he can’t stand to look at me now.

That wouldn’t explain the kiss earlier, of course… But even if he’s had a change of heart since he made the request to the Mage, the fact remains that he did.

I can’t let myself think any of this was something other than what it was. A distraction. For him, for me. Temporary.

I am to Snow as I have always been: disposable.

* * *

**SIMON**

I can’t sit still. My leg is bouncing and my fingers are tapping on my knees as I sit at the edge of my bed.

I kissed Baz. Like, _properly_ kissed him. Because I wanted to shut him up.

No, because I wanted to. Period.

What I don’t know, now, is whether or not he wanted to, as well. Or whether he’ll want to do it again.

I go back and forth in my head as I wait for him to get back from his classes—they ended a little while ago, and I’ll need to leave for dinner soon—trying to decide what to do when he gets here: kiss him again, or apologize. There are good arguments to be made for both options, but I’ve never been very good at weighing things like that. Pro/Con lists are not generally my cup of tea; I tend to just run head first into things and sort it out once I’m there.

Which is I guess how I got into this mess in the first place.

I still haven’t made up my mind by the time Baz walks in, but the scowl on his face tells me an apology is the way to go.

“Hey, um, I’m sorry that—” I begin, standing abruptly, while he heads to his desk to drop his notebooks.

He doesn’t let me finish before cutting in. “Did you ask the Mage to have me moved out of here?”

“What—No, I—Not since first year or something,” I say, confused by his question.

“So, not _today_, then?” he asks, but I can tell by his tone that he doesn’t believe me.

“Baz, why would I ask to have you moved out, especially now?”

“Because,” he says, turning to face me for the first time since he got here, “you’re embarrassed that you got off with a bloke—_more than once_, I might add—and rather than figure out what that means for you, you’d prefer to get rid of me. Does that sound about right?”

“I—I’m not—Are _you_ embarrassed you got off with a bloke?” I sputter. I almost can’t believe he would throw that in my face, except of course he would, because he’s my nemesis. Still.

He rolls his eyes. “I already know I’m gay, Snow,” he says, like that should have been obvious. (Maybe it should have.) “Getting off with a bloke is a dream come true—it’s just unfortunate that it has to be you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the most insufferable—”

“I mean, why does it _have_ to be me?” I say, and he frowns.

“What?”

“Like, why don’t you just get a boyfriend?”

He scoffs. “Why don’t you just get a new girlfriend?”

“I don’t want to,” I answer immediately, though I’m surprised by it as well. Why don’t I try and find someone? I mean, Agatha’s clearly out of the question at this point, but there could be someone else who’s interested. Who’s interesting. Who would kiss me and hold me—

But they wouldn’t be Baz. And that matters, for some reason. (Because he’s cold and it feels good when he touches me. That’s probably why.)

“Well, there you go,” Baz says, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “This is more convenient. But we can stop all of… _that_, if you really—”

For the second time today, I shut him up with my mouth.

He seems almost as startled as last time, but settles into it much quicker. It’s like I flipped a switch, and next thing I know, he’s shoving me back against the edge of my desk as he kisses me, like he’s devouring me. His fingers press into my hips so hard I almost think he’ll leave bruises—and I don’t think I mind.

Kissing like this feels a bit like fighting. Relentless, firm hands everywhere. Grappling against each other. Clambering for control. But it’s better than that. (So much better.) (_Merlin_, kissing Agatha was never like this.)

He yanks my hips flush with his, and I think about the last time I felt him pressed into me like this. Rocking myself against him on the forest floor, angry and confused. Just because it _felt good_.

I lower my hands to his arse so I can surge my hips up into him. He groans into my mouth. _This feels good too_.

Really good.

I wonder if we could get off like this. Grinding against each other. Devouring each other.

He takes his hands off me long enough to remove his jacket and toss it over my desk chair, without even looking. (So unlike him.)

But then he’s feeling me up again, working his fingers between the buttons of my shirt to get them open. I already took off my tie, opened a couple buttons, and rolled the sleeves up before he got here, but his shirt is still immaculate, like it’s just been pressed even though he’s been wearing it all day. (I’m guessing that’s a spell.)

I’m probably enjoying the fact that he’s undressing me a little too much, all things considered, and the fact that I’m awkwardly trying to thread my arms through his to get his buttons open too is… Well, I think it’s fair to say, it’s more than a little _gay_.

Because that’s what this is, right? This isn’t just _dudes being dudes_, this is well and proper gay. (I mean, maybe not _this_—unbuttoning another bloke’s shirt just seems _kinda_ gay—but what we’re doing, generally speaking, has _got to be_ gay.) (He said he was, anyway.)

I don’t actually know if all of this means I’m gay. Surely I liked Agatha, didn’t I? Not like this, I suppose. But still.

Nobody can see us in here, though, so it probably doesn’t really matter. Whatever I am, I want this, right now.

I want Baz.

That’s a bit of a fucked up thought, but it’s so hard to care when his tongue’s pushing up against mine and his hand’s worked its way into my trousers. The scent of him—so intense now, so close—is making me light-headed. So I can sort the rest out later.

After I’ve come.

After I’ve made him come.

_‘If you want me to come.’_

I so fucking do.

* * *

I can’t even remember what we were supposed to be competing over this time.

* * *

**BAZ**

I insist on taking a shower before Snow, since he seems not to mind sitting around in his own filth as much as I do. But I make it quick. I don’t even want to know what he would do if I made him miss dinner.

I’m fully dressed and spelled dry by the time I come out, but Snow’s just lying on his bed, shirtless, staring at the side of his wardrobe. Until he realizes I’m there, that is, because he turns and smiles at me. Because he’s a fucking bastard and wants me to suffer.

“All yours, Snow,” I say as I walk over to my desk and start straightening the books on it. I don’t know what else to do. Looking at him right now isn’t an option.

“Cheers,” he says, and I hear him spring to his feet. He slaps me on the shoulder on his way past me to the ensuite, and I try not to let it show when I flinch.

He’s acting like we’re… _bros_. Buddies. _Friends_.

Friends who jerk each other off sometimes, but friends nonetheless. Simon Snow, however, is not—and never will be—my _friend_. But when he kissed me…

Well, I thought maybe we could be _something_. That maybe his feelings for me fell somewhere outside the realm of the platonic. Because I think I would prefer if he hated me again.

I don’t think he hates me anymore. But he should. I’m using him.

I’m taking advantage of his overwhelming need to be loved, to be touched—so much that he’ll take whatever form of affection he can get—and using it to get as close to him as I want.

No. Not as close as I want. I want so much closer.

I don’t think I would survive anything closer, though.

I can hear the water come on in the shower, and I know I have a few minutes before he’s out. So I collapse on my bed and throw my arms over my face to drown out the rest of the world, just for a moment. Just to pretend there’s nothing. Pretend I don’t really exist. That I don’t have to live with the consequences of my actions because I’m not actually alive.

Not like Snow. He’s so alive. He’s so full of life he burns with it.

He burns me with it…

Fuck, I think I’m crying.

I sit up quickly and press my palms into my eyes until I can rein myself in. This is ridiculous. I’m a Pitch. I don’t feel _sorry_ for myself. (Well, I do. A lot. But I _shouldn’t_.)

A chill falls over me all of a sudden and I hear a voice, that sounds so close and yet so far away. _“My son.”_

I lift my head to see a pale, ghostly figure standing in the middle of the room, sending ice down my spine. I think I’m going to cry again.

“M-Mum?” I say uncertainly. It can’t really be her, can it? If she’s here for a Visiting, that means…

_“My son,”_ she repeats, gliding closer. I hug my arms around myself against the cold, though it’s futile.

“Mum—” My voice cracks before I can say any more, but she brings her hand up to the side of my face and I lean into it, despite the freezing cold.

_“I don’t have much time,”_ she says softly, but with an urgency in her voice. _“I have to tell you.”_

“Tell me what?” I say without breathing.

_“My killer walks,”_ she says. _“Nicodemus knows.”_

“Nicodemus—”

_“I need you to find Nico and bring me peace.”_

I nod and she takes my face in both hands now, placing a kiss on my forehead.

_“I love you, Basil. Remember that.”_

“Mum, I—” I begin, but I’m already crying and she’s already fading, and I can’t let her go, not yet. I try to hold onto her arm to keep her here, but my hand passes through her like she’s nothing but vapour now. “Wait! Don’t go, I don’t know how—”

_“My son…”_ she says, distantly now.

And then she’s gone.

The water from the shower stops, and I know I can’t let Snow see me here like this when he gets out. So I leave.

I don’t think I want to come back.

* * *

But I do come back. I have to.

I’ve been freezing since my mother’s Visit, and stalking through the Catacombs didn’t help. It’s late, though, and Snow’s asleep when I get it. Thank Merlin.

I shower again, longer this time, just to try and warm up a bit. But it doesn’t really work, so I huddle under my blankets and spell them extra warm. (I notice that Snow left the window shut tonight, oddly enough.) (Maybe the residual chill was too much, even for him.)

I look over at him now, and I can tell he’s already too warm. His sheets are pushed down to his waist as his bare chest risesand falls with his breath. _So alive_.

I want to tell him about my mother. What she told me. _‘My killer walks.’_ I don’t even know what that means. The Humdrum?

Not that I think Snow would be any help, in that regard. I’m much better suited to solving this matter than he is.

That’s not why I want to tell him.

I just want to tell _someone_.

My mother came to me. She Visited. She needs peace—she needs _me_ to bring her peace.

It’s too much for me. I can’t do it on my own; I can’t bear the weight of this secret. (I certainly can’t tell my _family_. They’ll probably kickstart the war over it, trying to find whoever this _Nicodemus_ is.)

I can’t tell my friends because we don’t do that. We don’t tell each other things like this. Things that matter.

We don’t tell each other what we’re feeling. (I’m pretty sure they think I’m _unfeeling_, and that’s how I prefer it.)

Snow, on the other hand…

_Crowley, what am I thinking?_ I turn to face the ceiling and clench my eyes shut so I stop staring at his sleeping form.

I can’t tell Snow any of this stuff either. Just because he makes me feel things I never knew I could feel… No, there’s no fucking way. That’s not what this is. Whatever this is.

I’m just trying to live out my fantasy of being close to him, and he’s just trying to get off without an emotional investment. It’s a symbiotic arrangement. Although I can’t help but feel like I’m taking advantage of him…

Telling him about this, though. Telling him what I’m thinking. What I’m afraid of. That would be taking advantage.

This is just supposed to be physical. Meaningless. A way to vent frustration without beating the shit out of each other.

I don’t actually _have_ Snow. He’s not _mine_.

I don’t have anyone.

* * *

**SIMON**

I wake up to the sound of movement in the room. That never happens.

Once I manage to open my eyes and focus them, I see Baz going through his wardrobe to pull out his clothes for the day. Which is odd, because he’s always up later than I am. _Did I sleep in?_

“Time is it?” I mumble as I sit up at the side of my bed.

“Nearly half seven,” he says.

So I did sleep in a little, by my standards. But only because I stayed up late waiting for him to get back to the room. (I fell asleep before he did, I guess.)

He’s still never up this early. I wonder if he’s even slept at all…

“Hey,” I say, standing and taking a few steps towards him. “Where were you all night?”

He snaps his head around to glare at me. “None of your business.”

His tone is a bit surprising, to be honest, considering yesterday… But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Whatever this is—the kissing and the groping—it doesn’t change anything.

I wish it would. It would make things… easier, I guess.

“Were you studying?” I continue making my way over to him. “Did you sleep at all?”

“What do you care?” he sneers.

“I—I just… wanna know what you were up to.”

“I have more important things in my life than dealing with your fucking paranoia all the time, Snow,” he says, turning back to his wardrobe and grabbing a shirt.

“Okay, okay, I was just asking.” I hold my hands up in surrender, but keep advancing on him. “You don’t have to bite my head off.”

He slams the wardrobe door shut and hangs his shirt over the knob. “Since when do you _just ask_ me things?” he says. “You always think I’m plotting against you, and honestly, I just don’t think about you that much!”

I stop in my tracks. Somehow that hurts more than believing he’s plotting something. (Though I wasn’t thinking that today.)

“I’m just worried you haven’t slept, that’s all,” I mutter, jutting my chin forward stubbornly. I’m close enough to tell that he probably didn’t sleep much, at least. His eyes are even droopier than usual.

He frowns at me a moment—I can’t tell if he’s confused or angry—but looks away suddenly. “You don’t need to concern yourself with my sleeping habits, Snow.”

I take another step closer. “What if I want to?” I say, crossing my arms over my bare chest self-consciously. (I feel more naked sleeping without my cross nowadays than I ever have while sleeping shirtless, but I haven’t really put the cross back on since… Since he asked me to take it off, I suppose.)

“Why would you—” Alarm flashes across his face when I get close enough to reach for his shoulder, but he schools his expression quickly, narrowing his eyes at me. “What do you want, Snow?” he hisses.

“I just—” I wish I could say something other than that. _Just, just, just_. “I want you to…” My voice trails off as I crowd right up into his personal space, running my hand up the back of his neck and into his hair.

_Kiss me_, I think.

And he does. (Fuck, I hope that doesn’t mean he can read my mind.)

He’s particularly aggressive about it this morning—for a second it looked like he was about to attack me—but I’m kind of into it. Even when he grabs me by the shoulders and swivels to shove me into the wardrobe door, knocking his shirt to the ground.

I slide my hands around his back and up under his silky pyjama shirt, his skin cool to the touch, as he starts grinding against me. Pretty soon, he’s as hard as I am, and the thought makes me moan into his mouth

He drags his icy knuckles down the front of my stomach, and I break our kiss with a gasp, turning away to catch my breath. With his other hand, he grabs the side of my head and forces me to face him again as he reaches into the front of my pyjamas.

“Is this what you want?” he says, his voice low and vaguely threatening in a way that sets my insides on fire.

“_Nngh_—Yes!” I say, more eagerly than I would like.

He exhales through his nose as he lets go to push my pyjamas down past my hips, like he’s disdainfully amused by my eagerness. The prick. But then he grabs both my wrists, lightning fast, as soon as I start to push his pyjamas down too.

“Not yet,” he says gruffly, pinning my wrists to the wardrobe on either side of me. He kisses me again, before I can protest.

“_Mmf_—Cheating—” is all I can manage to say, as I try to wrench my arms free. How am I supposed to get him off if I can’t touch him? (I don’t have vampire powers…)

“I thought this is what you wanted, Snow,” he says, giving me a long lick up the side of my neck as he pushes my hands up over my head.

_He’s going to bite me,_ I think, slightly panicked. Does he know I—sort of—want him to bite me? Like the way Sterling bites Adrian. (I don’t think I actually want that, though…) (I mean, probably not, right?)

He stacks my wrists where they meet above me so he can hold them down with one hand, and brings the other one down to rub my stomach. I let out a whining groan, but I’m not struggling against him anymore.

Oh, fuck it, I want whatever he’s going to give me.

_I want, I want, I want._

I nearly complain when he removes his hand from my stomach—I wanted it _lower_, not _off_—but then he spits in his hand, like I did before, and takes hold of me with it. Instead I grunt appreciatively.

“You’re depraved, Snow,” he says, sneering at me as if he’s disgusted. He keeps stroking me, though, which sort of undercuts his tone. “You’ll just get off with anyone, won’t you?”

“You’re—_nngh_—You’re one to talk.” I lift my chin to kiss him but he draws his head back and glares at me for a second before crashing his lips into mine again.

I try to move my arms—I need to touch him, anywhere—but his vice-like grip on my wrists won’t give.

_Super-strength_, I think to myself. Like when Sterling bent Adrian over and pinned his hands against the mattress while he—

“_Fuck_—” I gasp, turning my head quickly. I can’t think about that book or I’ll come before I’ve even got Baz’s cock out.

“This is just a cheap thrill for you, isn’t it?” he says into my ear. His breath on my skin makes me shiver. “You’re so needy. Hungry for attention. It’s pathetic.”

I whine again as he mouths at my neck. He’s stroking me so much faster than usual, this will be over too soon. And the insults aren’t helping. (I never thought Baz calling me pathetic would turn me on like this, so that’s new.) (…Then again, maybe it’s not _that_ new.)

But then he stops. His hand stills on my cock as he pulls away from my neck, and I stare at him, wide-eyed.

“W-What—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Say it.” His face is hovering so close, it wouldn’t take much to lift mine and kiss him. But I don’t. “Say you want this. Say you want me to make you come.”

I nod meekly.

“_Say it_,” he repeats, tightening his grip on my wrists.

“_I want you to make me come_,” I say desperately. “Just—Please—I—”

He starts up again, less rushed now, but it still won’t take much to finish me off. I’m doomed.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” he says when I screw my eyes shut in concentration. I nod again, and he presses the side of his face to mine. His breath is ragged against me; I expect it won’t take much for me to get him off, either, once he lets me touch him. (Maybe he wants me to suck him off again.) (I wouldn’t complain about that…)

“Come on, Snow,” he whispers, just like the first time he touched me this way. “You’re going to come for me, aren’t you? Aren’t you, Snow?”

“_Fuck_, yes—Baz—” I cry out, bucking my hips as I come in his hand yet again.

He’s practically panting on my shoulder as I settle back down. He lets my arms drop but keeps his head tucked against my neck. I place my hand on the back of his head without a second thought and comb it through his hair.

“Hey,” I say quietly, nudging the side of his face with my chin until he lifts it. I give him another kiss, softer this time. This feels fragile now, and I don’t know why.

He looks at me like I’ve just done something surprising.

“Do you want me to—” I begin as I brush my fingers along the waistband of his pyjamas, but he grabs my wrist again and backs away.

“I have to get ready,” he says stiffly, turning to go get his wand and spell the mess off of us. “And you’re going to be late for breakfast.”

“Baz, wait—” I say, but he shuts himself in the bathroom without another word. “Baz…”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon doesn't know what's worrying Baz, but he thinks maybe he can take Baz's mind off it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait between chapters--though it wasn't 6 months this time, so that's a start. I expect there will be another wait before the next chapter, though, because I've taken a break from writing this fic since it just wasn't flowing anymore. I hope to return to it at some point, though.

**BAZ**

Snow’s watching me.

I know I should be used to that. But the way he’s watching me, as I sit here trying to eat my lunch—or at least pick at it—it’s more infuriating than usual. Like he’s confused. Like he’s _concerned_.

And for once I don’t think he’s concerned that I’m plotting against him.

Really, I ought to be plotting against myself. Finding a way out of this cursed existence, because I’ve certainly doomed myself now.

If I let Snow touch me again, I’ll burn up. It will always be too much—and not enough.

Especially when he looks at me like _that_.

If I were anyone else to him, I would think he _cares_ what happens to me. Cares that I can’t sleep. Cares that I can’t eat.

But I can’t let myself think such nonsense.

“You alright, Baz?”

I return my attention to my immediate surroundings—namely the table where I’m sitting with Dev and Niall—when one of them speaks. I’m not sure which one.

“I’m _fine_,” I snap without looking at either of them. I stab my fork into a sad-looking broccoli floret, which has been boiled to within an inch of its life, and grimace.

I am, though. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.

I just have to avenge my mother’s death, single-handedly, and not allow myself to be incinerated by my roommate’s misplaced affection. _Piece of cake_.

**SIMON**

“I could really go for some cake, right about now,” I groan as I eye up the overcooked broccoli on my plate. (The school’s been trying to include more vegetables during lunch, but it seems they only have the budget for the frozen kind, and then boil the shit out of them.) (I really hope they don’t start fucking with the dinner menus, next.)

“I could spell it to taste like cake, if you want,” Penny offers, but somehow that sounds worse.

“Er, no, thanks.”

I put one elbow on the table and prop up my head while I push the offending vegetables around my plate with my fork, and glance over at Baz’s table again. He’s staring down at his plate, too, like he’s equally offended, and I almost snort a laugh.

It doesn’t really look like he’s eaten anything, though. I mean, I know he doesn’t seem to eat much, anyway, at least not in front of people—he can really put away the salt and vinegar crisps while I’m sleeping—but I think this is worse than usual. Everything about him seems worse than usual, today.

It’s probably because he didn’t sleep. I just don’t know why.

Maybe he’s stressed about something. An assignment for school, perhaps? Or he could be trying to learn a new song on the violin and is having trouble with it—there was one that took him a while to get the hang of last year and he’d have a meltdown every time I breathed, pretty much.

I mean, I guess he could be stressed about… us.

Maybe he figured out that I’m more into all of this than he is—the way he was taunting me this morning, he _has_ to know. But it’s not like I’m asking him to pick out china patterns. I don’t even… _like_ him, that way. I just like the stuff we do together. The recent stuff. (Though I didn’t always hate the fighting, exactly…) (But this stuff is better than fighting.)

He doesn’t want a boyfriend, I know, but I said I wasn’t looking for anyone either. He shouldn’t worry about that.

His eyes meet mine, suddenly, and he narrows them at me. Which is when I realize that I’ve been staring at him with my bottom lip pulled between my teeth for longer than I’d care to admit.

I flick my eyebrows up, trying to make it seem like I meant for this to happen, and he looks back down at his plate quickly.

I don’t want to be the thing that causes him stress. Not anymore, at least.

I’d rather be his stress-relief.

* * *

**BAZ**

I make a point of staying out late again tonight. I’m worried if I spend too much time in the room with Snow, he’ll ask me how I’m _feeling_. And that just will not do.

He seems to be asleep already when I get in, but by the time I finish cleaning up and changing for bed, he’s sitting up groggily at the edge of his bed, watching me. Waiting for me, even.

“Hey,” he says, his voice a bit husky, presumably from the sleep I seem to have interrupted. “How was your day?”

I bristle at his words. “Fine,” I snap. I don’t want to talk about my day.

I don’t want to talk about anything.

“You just seemed a bit, I dunno… Touchy, this morning,” he says, and then looks down at the floor between our beds. “You didn’t want me to get you off.”

“I never want _you_ to get me off, Snow,” I scoff, even though that’s an absolute lie. “It’s merely convenient on occasion.”

He frowns at me, and then stretches an arm out towards me. “C’mere.”

“What?” I stare at him incredulously.

“_Baz_, just—” he says, gesturing for me to come closer. “Get over here.”

I’m about to protest again, but then he says something that I never expect to hear him say—and for the second time today.

“_Please_.”

I have no idea what he wants from me right now—a heart-to-heart, perhaps? No chance I’m doing that. But I roll my eyes and head over to him anyway. Because I’m curious. (Because I’m weak.)

He grabs my sleeve once I’m within reach and pulls me in closer, urging me onto the bed next to him. Onto _his_ bed. (_I’m sitting on Simon Snow’s bed_.) (Somehow that’s more thrilling than what I did to him this morning.) (Well, almost.)

His hand stays on my sleeve—on my arm—even once I’m sitting, and he angles himself to look at me. I accidentally left the bathroom light on, but it’s really the only source of illumination in here, except for the faint glow of the moon from the window.

He looks sleep-drunk, with a lazy smile on his face.

“You seem stressed,” he says, tucking some of my hair behind my ear, making this moment far too tender for me to handle.

I almost walk away, but then he’s sliding his fingers through the back of my hair, and it feels _so good_ that I just close my eyes and relax my head back into his hand. Perhaps he’s going to scalp-massage away all my stress. (If only that would work.)

“Want me to take your mind off it? A little _stress-relief_?” He’s leaning in, now, letting his other hand rest on my knee. I think he’s offering a different kind of _massage_.

I should say no. I should spit in his face. I should tell him not to touch me ever again.

But I lean in, too.

“What are you doing, Snow?” I ask, but it comes out practically a whisper as he draws me in.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he whispers in return, as his hand creeps up my thigh.

I know it’s a bad idea to let him kiss me—though maybe I kiss him, it’s hard to tell—but he’s offering me everything I ever wanted.

_No, not everything_.

He’s offering to _take my mind off it_, presumably with a frenzied mutual wank followed by a generous dose of self-loathing as I pointedly _do not_ cry myself to sleep, across the room.

But his mouth is warm and welcoming against mine, and his fingers are leisurely curling against the back of my head—it’s hard to remember why I thought this would be a bad idea. Not to mention the way his other hand—the one on my leg—is massaging my inner thigh, tantalizingly close to my growing arousal.

I can do this. I can jerk him off to blow off steam, like we’ve been doing for the past couple weeks. (Crowley, has it only been that long since he first proposed a “rematch”?) (It feels like a lifetime ago—and like it was only yesterday.)

I can compartmentalize, keep the part of myself that’s madly and hopelessly in love with him out of the picture, and take this for what it is. I can take whatever he’ll give me.

He leans backward after a minute, though, pulling his legs up onto the bed. But he takes my hand as he does, and urges me to follow him, until he’s stretched out on his back beside me. I try to keep a respectable distance—something about being horizontal feels far too intimate for us—but soon he’s dragging me on top of him.

I almost wonder if he’s half-asleep, except he groans my name, with the weight of me pressing down on him, and his hips surge up to meet mine. His motions—his _kisses_—are languid and drawn out, but he’s setting me on fire in ways I didn’t know were possible.

“Snow—” I begin, as I lift myself to my elbows above him. But his hands are sliding up the sides of my shirt, and I can’t do anything but exhale shakily.

I let him pull it right off over my head—my wand falls out of the sleeve and I just leave it there, next to us—and revert to holding myself up on my hands and knees. As if I will literally burst into flames should his bare chest touch mine.

“Snow, are you sure—” I say, but he shushes me softly and reaches up to sweep my hair behind my ear again.

“Just stop overthinking for a bit,” he says before pulling me down to meet his lips.

He holds the back of my head with one hand—forcing me back down to my elbows—and pulls my hips down with the other. He’s rocking his hips up against me in a steady rhythm, and I let myself give in to it.

“Is this good?” he asks when I go to kiss his neck. He firms his grip on my arse.

I want to tell him to stop asking me that. Forever. Because the last thing I want is to admit that everything he does to me feels good. But instead I pant next to his ear, “_So good_.”

I push my hips down into him, trying to match his thrusts, and he groans again. It’s a sound that tears right through me, driving me ever closer to the precipice of the _stress-relief_ he offered.

This is nothing like our usual _mutually beneficial_ encounters, which feel frenetic and urgent—but the need building inside me is no less intense. The taste of his skin, the heat—the magic—rolling off him, the rhythmic press of his hips; I’m about to finish mortifyingly quick. But the way his body tenses beneath me, I suspect he’s in the same boat.

“_Nngh_—Wait, Baz—Wait—” he says, breathing heavily as he stills himself, holding me back. “I was almost gonna come.”

I lift my head to smirk at him and grind down against him a little more. “Isn’t that why we’re doing this?”

His cheeks are flushed and his lips are parted ever so enticingly.

“Well, yeah, but…” he says, holding me back by the hip again before hooking his thumb into my waistband. “I wanna make you feel good first.”

_Crowley_, he shouldn’t be allowed to say stuff like that to me. Especially not with the air of sincerity that his languorous state is affording him. I don’t even give him a chance to show me what he has in mind, before I’m kissing him again and rolling my hips into him, more desperately than before.

I mouth along his jaw as the need builds, once more. “Fuck, _Simon_—” I breathe against his neck.

“_Baz_—” he moans, gripping my arse with both hands now. “Are—Are you gonna—”

_Yes_, I think, as his breath comes out in huffs by my ear. _I’m going to come in my pants and it’s all your fault._

Well, that’s not entirely true.

It’s not _all_ his fault.

Though the sound he makes when he comes is the final push that sends me over the edge, until I’m nothing but a blissed-out disaster, collapsed on Snow’s chest as I seek his mouth with mine. He meets it readily, though he soon turns us both onto our sides so we can catch our breath.

My wand ends up wedged between us, so I pull it out and spell the mess out of our pyjamas. Before I can even think to leave his bed, however, he throws an arm over me and strokes back my hair. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at his while he does it. So I can pretend this isn’t completely bizarre—that this is just what we do.

I’ve almost drifted off, when Snow’s voice brings me back. It sounds soft and used.

“Baz, can I ask you something?”

I open my eyes. “Yeah,” I say, though it nearly gets stuck in my throat.

“I was just wondering if you would ever consider…” he begins, pulling his lip between his teeth for a moment. “Like, would you ever, um… bite me?”

“Bite you?” I ask in disbelief. I know asking him to take off his cross that first time was a dead giveaway, but I assumed we were never going to talk about it. About the elephant in the room. (Or the _vampire_ in the room, I suppose.)

_He’s worried I’m going to bite him?_

“Yeah, like, you know…” he adds. “The way Sterling bites Adrian…”

_Oh_.

“Are you saying you _want_ me to bite you?”

He shrugs. “I’m just curious, is all.”

“Well, that’s fiction, Snow,” I say, rolling away from him, onto my back. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Doesn’t work like what?” he asks. His arm is still draped across me.

“_Drinking_,” I begin, trying to choose my words carefully, “is nourishment. It’s like food. It’s self-preservation. It has nothing to do with _this_.” I gesture in the air with my hand vaguely. “This is sex. This is—”

“Human,” he says quietly, and my cold, undead heart clenches in my chest.

* * *

**SIMON**

“So, are you still jogging?” Penny asks as I shovel broccoli into my mouth. (I’m feeling too good to care about how disgusting it is today.)

“Hmm?” I reply, making sure to keep my mouth shut.

“You seem less fidgety and agitated, lately,” she says. “Which is good. I’m glad you found an outlet that doesn’t involve breaking Baz’s nose. Again.”

“Oh.” I swallow my food and nod. “Er, yeah. Yeah, jogging’s good. I’m—It’s a good outlet, like you said.”

I know I shouldn’t lie to Penny. Even though I suppose I have been lying to her for a month. But that was more a _lie of a mission_, or whatever. I’ve just avoided telling her the whole truth, which doesn’t seem as bad, I guess.

I figured I could keep that up indefinitely, since she was never going to think to straight up ask me, _“Simon, are you getting off with Baz on a near-daily basis?”_ Because that sounds insane.

But the jogging thing is such a good cover, and she just handed it to me like a perfectly wrapped Christmas gift—like the kind the Wellbeloves give—so I _had_ to take it. As long as she doesn’t ask too many specifics, I should be okay. (I think.)

Because I certainly can’t tell her the truth.

That in the past month, I’ve gotten Baz off with my hands more times than I can count on them. That I’ve made him come in my mouth enough times to actually get pretty good at it. That I’ve already snogged him more times than I ever did with Agatha. (She was more the _quick peck on the lips_ sort.)

I also can’t tell her that I think about him all the time. Well, that’s not exactly a new development, but the way I think about him has drastically changed—for the most part. I have a growing list of things I want to do to him, and breaking his nose again isn’t one of them.

The other day he left a couple books on my desk in our room. They had boring looking covers and the titles of classic literature, or some shit, and I was going to give him an earful about sending me such a patronizing message. (I’m uncultured, or whatever. I get it. Fuck off.)

But then I picked one up and flipped through it…

Well. I didn’t realize Sterling and Adrian’s adventures were part of a trilogy.

The later books definitely have more _plot_ in them, though. As their relationship gets more serious. But there are still plenty of scenes that are… intriguing, to say the least.

One time, between classes, he stopped me in the corridor, looking like he was spoiling for a fight. The way he always does. He scowled at me, leaned in threateningly, and muttered, _“Book two, chapter seventeen,”_ before shoving me aside and continuing on his way.

As soon as I got back to our room that afternoon, I flipped to that chapter—I’d read all the books, of course, but I didn’t have the chapters memorized as well as he does, apparently—and found that it was the one where Sterling shows up at Adrian’s workplace for a nooner, and they almost get caught.

I glance over at him now, across the dining hall. It’s almost like he can tell whenever I look at him, because his eyes snap up to meet mine. He skillfully raises one eyebrow and I can feel my face heat up. A smirk flickers on his face before he looks away again.

I think he’s plotting something. And I can’t wait to find out what it is.

“So, er, yeah,” I repeat, turning my attention back to Penny (and my food). “I really like jogging.”

***

**BAZ**

Snow was already sitting at his desk for our Greek lessons when I showed up. I stopped next to my desk, a couple rows ahead of him, and glared at him.

“I suggest you don’t interrupt my research,” I said to him sternly. “Or you’re going to pay for it.”

He frowned in confusion—out of context, it was a nonsense thing to say, and would mean nothing to anyone who overheard—but I could see the moment realization dawned on him. His cheeks went pink and he quickly looked down at his worn out notebook, tapping his pen against it anxiously.

I took my seat, pleased with myself.

I knew he’d be thinking about it, now. About the chapter where Adrian interrupts Sterling while he’s doing research for his PhD in his study, and Sterling makes him pay for it. Where Sterling wraps his tie around Adrian’s wrists and bends him over the desk…

I’ve noticed that Snow is particularly receptive to the bondage-type scenes—and scenes where Sterling bites Adrian, which I still think is completely unrealistic and disgusting, like trying to get off with someone while eating a Big Mac—so I make a point of referencing them while we’re in class together. His magic smells different when he’s frustrated in _that way_, subtly enough that only I can tell the difference, I’m sure. But I like knowing that I’m getting to him.

The way he cornered me when we got back to our room, kissing me and growling at me and pushing me into my desk chair as he dropped to his knees—well, it’s clear I was definitely getting to him.

I stand and pull him up to meet my mouth afterwards, kissing him, tasting him—tasting myself on him, and what that means. It’s sickening how much I enjoy this, how much I want this, want _him_.

He gasps when I grab him below his arse and lift him, like he weighs nothing, depositing him on the desk in one swift motion. He’s kissing me hungrily as I remove my tie—I don’t think he even notices what I’m doing until I grab both his wrists and hold them behind his back. He stares at me, wide-eyed, his face inches away from mine.

I lean in to speak into his ear, with a low voice. “Would you like me to tie you up?” I ask.

“Only if you’re gonna touch me,” he says.

“I make no promises, Snow.”

He huffs a laugh but nods anyway. “Go on, then.”

I wrap my tie around his wrists, but it’s more for show than anything else. I don’t even tie a proper knot in it.

“Uh, shouldn’t you have taken that off first?” Snow asks when I start unbuttoning his shirt.

“You think it’s wise to question me while you’re tied up and at my mercy?” I say, and push his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, letting it bunch up around his wrists.

He smiles, pleased with himself. “And what about my trousers, then?”

I sigh and reach past him for my wand, which I left on my desk, and cast **Caught with your pants down**. His trousers and pants slide down around his ankles on their own.

“Oh, yeah,” he says sheepishly. Like he forgot magic was a thing.

“I could just leave you here, like this, if you’re going to keep questioning me,” I say, and he pinches his mouth shut and shakes his head.

I move in closer again, trailing my fingertips along his bare thighs, and press my face into the side of his neck. He sucks in a sharp breath, like he thinks I might bite him. I wouldn’t, not ever—and he knows it—but he seems to like the idea, hypothetically, considering the way he’s angling his head to expose his neck even more. So I graze over his skin lightly with my teeth—my regular teeth—and he moans.

“_Baz_,” he whines, as I continue brushing my fingertips up his legs, barely ghosting over them. “Just—Touch me, dammit!”

I plant my hands firmly on his hips. “I am touching you. _Darling_,” I say, and pull his earlobe between my teeth.

“Baz, _c’mon_!” he says, wriggling against me. He nearly shoulders me in the face, but I pull back in time. “S-sorry, I just—”

“You’re just extremely impatient,” I say, though I finally take him in my hand and he groans in relief. “I really should make you wait. Bring you to the edge and leave you there until you beg me to finish you off. It’s what Sterling would do.”

“_Fuck_,” he breathes, dropping his head back as I stroke him. I lick one of his moles, prominently on display. “_Nngh!_”

I know how to do this. I know how to make Snow buck and whine and swear and beg. I know how to make him come apart in my hand. I’ve figured out this part of him, I’ve become an expert in it. Like this, anyway. On the desk. Against the wall. Pinned to the wardrobe.

We haven’t been back in Snow’s bed since then, because I don’t know how to do _that_. It’s one thing to get each other off with our hands, but that was something else. Our bodies moving together, coming together, not an inch of space between us. It’s too much. If it weren’t for our pyjamas creating a sliver of distance, I would surely have gone up in flames.

He looked so open then. Drowsy but wanting. _‘I wanna make you feel good.’_ How can he just say things like that? Like they won’t burn me up from the inside if I think about them too hard. Like they don’t have the power to turn everything upside down.

It’s better like this. Vertical. Alert. Not pretending this is anything other than what it is.

I stop my hand when Snow looks like he’s about to come. I know how to do this.

His eyes shoot open and he gapes at me. “Baz, _Jesus_, I’m—_Fuck_, Baz, please, just—” he says as he tries desperately to thrust up into my hand. With his arms tied and his legs dangling, it doesn’t get him anywhere.

“Use your words,” I say with a smirk.

I expect him to start swearing and writhing again, but he just surges forward with his chin and kisses me. It catches me off-guard and I hold his head in both hands to ground myself. I grab fistfuls of his hair as I lean into him, swallowing the string of tantalizing sounds escaping him.

“Baz—” he pants, breaking his lips away, just for a second. “I _need_ you— Let me come— _Please_.”

I could toy with him, drag this out further, but I don’t want to anymore. I just want to make him feel good.

I keep kissing him as I reach down between him and start stroking his cock again, and he practically whimpers. It’s not long before he tips his head back, gasping for air, when I bring him over the edge.

It’s lovely to watch him like this. The way he screws up his face in concentration and then drops his mouth open, like it’s a surprise every time.

I kiss the side of his face now, without even thinking, but before I can pull away, he turns and bumps his nose against mine. He kisses me again, slow and uncoordinated as he floats back down, and I revel in it for a moment. It’s almost nice to imagine it, to pretend we’re just happy boyfriends, that this doesn’t all stop as soon as we come. But we’re not Sterling and Adrian.

“Baz,” Snow says as he leans back. “I think you can untie me now.”

“Right,” I say, and reach behind him to unwrap his wrists. No sense pretending this is anything other than what it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say right off the bat that, no, Baz is not going to bite Simon in this fic. I wanted to go a different route, contrasting the pop culture vampire, where biting can be sexy, with the "real life" vampire, where biting is just like food and decidedly not sexy at all. I'm not against _sexy biting_ fics, I love those. But that's not what this is. Wouldn't want anyone to get their hopes up.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this fic and still want to know about my WIPs and other random, vaguely Carry On or fanfic-related things I like to talk about, you can find me on tumblr as [@f-ing-ruthless-baz](https://f-ing-ruthless-baz.tumblr.com)!


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